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)
My toes are brittle by the time I make it home, and I have exactly ten minutes to shower, change, and get to the office. I’ve already accepted I’m going to be late; I’d work from home if I could bear it.
I open the gate with a few firm thrusts, pushing the snow back, and take careful steps to the door, heaving it open. My teeth chatter, my skin burns it’s so cold. Why didn’t I stay in bed with Dec?
My key is halfway in the lock when Mr. Percival’s door swings open. He looks me up and down. I’m sure I don’t like the slight drop of his mouth. “Good morning, Mr. Percival.”
“And what time do you call this?”
“Huh?”
He pulls out his old watch, dangling it at me. “Seven fifty!”
“I know what the time is, Mr. Percival.”
“I’ve been worried.”
“You have?”
“Yes, I have. You leave in the morning—Monday to Friday—at five thirty to run and return at six thirty. Then you leave at seven, for work, I assume, and return at ten p.m. earliest. On Saturdays, you run a little later and then leave again at noon and return at eleven p.m. earliest. Sometimes as late as midnight. On Sundays—”
“I get it, Mr. Percival.”
“So where did you stay?”
I laugh and turn the key. “That’s private.”
He recoils, injured.
“Mr. Percival, I appreciate your concern, but it’s not needed.”
He huffs, coming at me on his walking frame. “You are a very beautiful young woman, Camryn.”
I smile fondly. “Thank you.”
“You’re single and live alone. You run here, walk there, and stay out much later than you should.” He waggles a finger at me. He actually waggles a finger. “And from what I know about you since you moved into this building, there’s no one to worry about you, except me.”
Ouch.
“Well, there’s . . .” Dec. There’s Dec. Mr. Percival has seen Dec, because he spies on me.
“I’d feel much better if we exchange numbers.” He whips out a phone the size of a house and thrusts it toward me. “If you don’t mind.”
“You want my number?”
“Just so you can let me know if your regular routine changes to save my worry.”
I laugh, pulling the key out of the lock. I could refuse. But, of course, I don’t. Sighing, I go to Mr. Percival, to save him the effort and trouble of hobbling to me, and take the brick from his hand. He’s just looking out for me, maybe more so now he’s seen Dec walk me home. “How do you work this monstrous thing?” I grumble, punching in my number, a loud beep sounding with each button I press.
“Looks like you’ve got the hang of it.”
My number on the screen looks like it’s on a calculator. I swear, you could read the digits from the fucking moon. “There.” I press dial and raise my brows when my phone starts singing in my pocket. “I’ll save your number, Mr. Percival, so I know it’s you harassing me.”
“Marvellous.” He claims his mobile—if you can call it that, the thing needs its own bloody walking frame—and shuffles round, going back into his apartment.
“Ever thought about a smartphone, Mr. Percival?”
“You must be joking. It’s taken me twenty years to figure out how to use this one.”
“I was at Dec’s, by the way.”
“I thought as much.” The door slams.
“So there is someone else to worry about me,” I add quietly to myself, smiling.
I enter my apartment and go straight to the kitchen, pulling out Mr. Percival’s cake from the fridge and cutting off a slice, feeling unusually peckish for this time of day. I wrap my lips around a piece and hum, catching a crumb as I turn.
“Fuck!” Something leaps off the kitchen table, screaming in shock as it flies through the air, landing on the counter and scurrying away.
I jump out of my fucking skin, inhaling so hard, the cake shoots to the back of my throat, and I cough, dropping my breakfast and grabbing the counter, wheezing. “Jesus Christ.” It appears at the doorway again, a big fat ginger thing, sitting smack bang in the middle, staring straight at me as its tail wafts back and forth. “Shoo,” I snap, flapping a hand at it. “Go away.” I stamp my foot forward, but it doesn’t deter the brazen moggy. “Get out of here.” Its eyes are suspicious slits, its purr loud. I’m wary. It looks like it could swipe at me. “Shoo!”
Almost aloof, it stands and struts toward the front door, and I follow, finding it looking back at me, as if it’s impatiently waiting for me to open it. “How did you get in here?” I ask, leaning over it and flipping the catch.
“Maureen!” Mr. Percival yells. “Where have you been?”
“Maureen?” I ask. “This is Maureen?”
“That’s what I said, dear.” Maureen pads on light paws past Mr. Percival, her nose high, and disappears among the sea of gnomes.