Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Dec blows his cheeks out and rubs his belly. Again, very unlike Dec. “Blew me away. Well, as you can see, I’m not holding Camryn against her will, so if there’s nothing else?”
The old boy recoils. Then grins wickedly, looking up and down the corridor, prompting me to crane my head and do the same, though who I’m looking for I don’t know. “You’re skiving,” he says. “Both of you. Called in sickies, have we?”
“Actually, I’ve not called in anything yet.”
“And I own the company,” Dec says. “So I don’t need to call in a thing.”
“Oooh, you own the company, huh?”
Dec frowns. “Yeah.”
“Impressive.” Mr. Percival waggles his brows. “Anyway, kids, gotta dash. I’m late for bingo.” He hobbles off, pulling me and Dec into the corridor.
“You really shouldn’t be going out in that weather,” Dec says.
“How else am I going to get there?”
“A cab?”
“I’m a pensioner. Can’t afford one of those.”
“I’ll pay.”
“I ain’t no charity.”
Dec rolls his eyes, and I chuckle. “Have fun,” I call, and then yelp when Dec seizes me and hauls me back inside.
He slams the door, carries me to the kitchen, and sits me down. “So what are we having for breakfast?” he asks, flicking the kettle on and then stilling. He slowly looks over his shoulder. His eyebrows gradually rise, his gaze drifting to the doorway.
“I’ll go get the cake,” I say, getting up and hurrying through to the bedroom. Plunging my finger into the buttercream on my way back to the kitchen isn’t a temptation I can resist. “You make coffee, I’ll cut the cake.” I falter on my way to the cutlery drawer, distracted by the practically naked man in my kitchen. I sigh, collecting a knife—I must buy some proper knives—and take myself and the cake to the table. Dec finds his own way around my sparse kitchen cupboards, bringing the coffee and plates. I cut a huge wedge of cake for him, then take a smaller slice for myself.
We both sink our teeth into the sponge. “Oh my God,” Dec mumbles around his mouthful, closing his eyes and dropping his head back on a hum of approval.
“Good, huh?” I garble in reply, catching a blob of buttercream on the corner of my mouth and sucking it off my finger.
“Fucking orgasmic.”
I chuckle around my mouthful. “I’m not sure if his fruit cake is my favourite, or this,” I say, swallowing and taking another bite immediately.
Dec’s shoulders slump, his exhale loud through his nose. “So today.” He smiles as he reaches across and wipes up another blob off my lips, licking his finger clean.
“Today,” I parrot, my chews slowing.
“What can I do?” he asks, sliding down his chair slightly and taking his coffee, oh so casual, as if he’s here every morning and coffee and cake is part of our everyday routine.
“I don’t know,” I admit. He’s not really done anything so far, and yet so much just by being here. Being close.
“How about we go for a walk?”
“A walk?”
“A walk. You like walking. I like walking with you.”
“Okay.”
“We can stop for a coffee, avoid the Christmas markets, freeze our tits off.”
I smile. “Sounds perfect.”
“So are you calling in sick?” he asks, finishing his slice and looking at the cake longingly.
“I am.” For the first time in years. I cut him another wedge and plop it on his plate, and he groans as he starts to demolish his second piece, and I wrap my lips around mine, checking the time. Thomas hasn’t called to find out where I am. I can’t put it down to an assumption on his part that I’ve bailed the office because of the weather, like ninety percent of his staff have done.
Dec stands, dusting off his hands of crumbs, and comes to me, placing his palms on the arms of the chair and leaning down in my face. “Can I use your shower?” he asks quietly.
“It’s . . . smaller than your shower.”
“I didn’t ask how big it is, I asked if I could use it.”
“You can use it.”
“Thanks,” he whispers, lowering his lips to my cheek, taking my breath with that chaste peck, before he saunters off.
“Dec,” I call out, stalling him at the door. He looks back. “Thank you.”
“Shut up.” And he disappears, leaving me to make the call to Thomas.
Thomas wasn’t available, so I left a message with Crystal while I ate another slice of cake. Somehow, I don’t think it’s of any consequence to Thomas whether I go to work or not, since he’s apparently selling TF Shipping.
Dec, in the same clothes he turned up in last night—wool blend grey trousers, a navy, thin-knit quarter-zip over a shirt, and his coat and scarf—stands over Mr. Percival’s turkey again, staring at it. “It’s definitely dead,” I say, pulling my hat and gloves on.
“Ha ha,” he drones, taking my hand. “Watch it, there’s an icy patch.”