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)
I grab my bag and coat and flick the light off, stopping when I make it to the door and looking back at my desk. I smile, close the door, and leave. I can’t say I won’t ever be back, because Dec owns the company now.
You always said you could make it happen in one year with compliance.
I achieved what I set out to do. Amazing what a difference compliance makes. I pause a beat as I step on the elevator. Wait. Dec doesn’t own the company. The shareholders own the company.
My smile widens, and I pull out my phone and text him.
Signed, sealed, delivered.
The little dots start flickering instantly, the elevator doors open, and I start to step off but gasp when I find Dec immediately outside. “What took you so long?” he asks.
I smile and drop my bag and coat, throwing my arms around his shoulders. “I missed you,” I breathe, finding his mouth and kissing him hard.
He hums and lifts me from the floor a few inches, indulging my demand until we hear the doors closing and opening again, over and over. I break away and look over my shoulder, seeing my bag and coat blocking them.
“Oops.”
Dec lowers me and collects my coat, helping me into it, before he claims my bag and my hand.
“Where’s Albi?”
“In the car with Mr. P.”
“Oh, you picked him up already?”
“I think we need to consider some kind of assisted living.”
I wince. I can’t deny that there have been some heart-stopping frights this year with Mr. Percival. He took a tumble down the steps on the High Street a few months ago, and Dec stopped by only last week and found the bathroom flooded, the bath tap running, Mr. Percival nowhere in sight. “What’s happened now?”
“He left a tea towel on the stove.” He looks at me with a hitched brow. “The stove was on.”
“Oh God. Why was the stove on?”
“He forgot to turn it off after he finished making his seventieth batch of mince pies.” God love Mr. P, the man is one hundred, soon-to-be one hundred and one, and still bakes for the masses at Christmas. He was thrilled when he received his one-hundredth birthday greetings from King Charles last January, we all were. He framed the card, which didn’t surprise any of us. But these accidents are . . . worrying.
“He refuses to entertain assisted living,” I remind Dec.
“Then he comes and lives with us, simple.”
“He won’t like it,” I warn, quite certain I don’t want to be the one to have that conversation with him. “I guarantee you’ll meet resistance.” He’s a proud man.
“So will he.” Dec smiles across to me. “How do you feel?”
He asks me this often. Settled. I feel settled. I’m looking forward to tomorrow, though I know it won’t come without its moments, but I’m coping much better when they do catch me. And on the nineteenth—when it was four years since Noah died—it was still incredibly hard. But Dec took the day off, graciously gave me the day off too, and we did what we did the year before. Wandered. Drank silky hot chocolate. He bought me a dress, this one a beautiful emerald-green velvet shift dress, and this time we made it out for our dinner date while April and Blaine watched Albi. It was perfect. And while it had been four years to the day since I lost my boy, I recognised the fact that it had also been one year to the day that I met Albi. My little lifesaver. The joy he brings and the grief, which will never leave me, still conflict, but I’m at ease feeling both. I understand it.
But Dec wasn’t talking about any of that when he asked me how I’m feeling. “I feel like I achieved something today,” I admit. “After three long years trying to achieve it.” I nudge him. “You weren’t so bad to work with.” To be fair, I hardly worked with him, because he simply handed me the ropes and let me crack on. And I did.
Dec laughs as we break out into a bleak, grey London. Quite a departure from last year. “Well,” he says. “I might have another project for you to spend the next year on.”
I stop, pulling him to a stop too. “What did you buy now?” I ask. He looks sheepish. “Tell me you haven’t turned your father over again.”
“God, no. I’m over that. In fact, he’s asked us over for dinner after Christmas.”
I recoil. “And how do you feel about that?”
“Indifferent.” He shrugs, and I roll my eyes. Indifferent, my arse.
“We’re going, you know that?”
Now, he rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know that. I also accepted the invitation to Paisley’s wedding.”
“Oh. My. God,” I say, dramatic. Finally. It’s been sitting in a drawer for weeks. I didn’t push it. I could see him silently pondering the idea of us going.