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)
He groans and lifts me, carrying me to my bedroom and laying me down, crowding me completely. He kisses me gently again. “You taste like brandy.”
“Mr. Percival was trying to get me drunk,” I say around our swirling tongues, my eyes widening when he firms against my thigh.
“Fuck it.” He rips his mouth off mine, wedges his palms into the mattress, and lifts his torso. “I need to take a rain check.”
“Why?”
“Ron’s waiting outside and he’s got somewhere he needs to be after he’s dropped us off.”
“Where are we going?”
“For dinner.” He stands and pulls me up to my feet.
“But Dec, my face is—”
“Beautiful. Do you want to change?”
I sigh and look down my front, wondering if he’s seeing what I’m seeing. “I should think so.”
“I’ll wait”—he gestures over his shoulder, backing away—“out here.” He grimaces and adjusts himself as he turns, and I bite my lip to stop my smile. Which is crazy. Why would I stop it? So I let my happiness loose. Why would I ever deprive myself of something that seems to make everything in this godforsaken world easier to bear?
We pass an electrical engineer as we leave, which makes me feel a whole lot better about Mr. Percival and his ice box. Not that he seemed bothered. I’m still waiting for the feeling to come back in my fingers and toes.
Dec halts abruptly on the steps, and I stagger to a stop next to him, following his line of sight. I smile. Dec hums under his breath, the sound full of puzzlement. “Why is there a turkey in the snow?” he asks, pointing at the frozen bird plonked outside the doors, some wire netting laying over it, assumedly to protect it from Maureen and any other neighbourhood cats.
“Mr. Percival,” I say. “His freezer will have stopped working with the electricity cut.”
Dec looks at me in alarm. “You said that like it’s perfectly normal for people to leave turkeys in the snow outside their house.”
“It is for Mr. Percival. He’s ninety-nine, Dec. Ninety-nine! Can you imagine being that old?”
He huffs. “No. I feel pretty ancient now.”
I laugh. And stop. “I don’t know how old you are.”
“Thirty-nine. It’s been a long day at work.”
He looks like a healthy thirty-nine-year-old. Mature. Worn in. Perfect. “What were you merging or acquiring today?”
“I’m acquiring you.” He allows a smile to break, letting his eyes fall down my front. “I like this.”
“The coat?”
“No,” he says, the word stretched, as he takes the sides of my long black coat and pulls it open. “This.”
“It’s a black dress.” One I’ve been known to wear to work on occasions. Nothing special. Hence, I wear it to work. Truth be told, I have no differentiation in my wardrobe. No work clothes section, casual section, evening section. It’s a mash-up of workout clothes and workwear. The odd pair of jeans. A few jumpers and sweaters.
All of it black.
“I like it,” he declares again, pulling me on and opening the door of the Defender. “In.”
I slide across the seat and smile my hello to the driver in the rearview mirror.
“Langans, thanks, Ron.” Dec shuts the door and goes to his phone, his face down. The glow of his screen shines up onto his face, making his lashes seem especially long. I leave him to whatever he’s doing on his mobile, despite being able to watch him all evening, and look out of the window. A rainbow of colours shoots like darts through the windscreen into the back as Ron turns onto the main road, the Christmas lights making a disco in the car.
Dec’s phone rings, he sighs, and my eyes naturally turn to the screen. “Dad,” I say, assessing his strung form. “Ready to unpack that?”
His head turns slowly toward me. “Nothing to unpack. My mum died, he remarried a woman half his age a year later, had two entitled brats with her, and he can’t seem to figure out why I don’t like him.”
I blink, quite alarmed by how he reeled that off with such little emotion. “I’m sorry. About your mother.”
“Me too. She was a wonderful woman.”
“So why’s your dad calling if you don’t speak?”
“One of the brats got engaged.” The look he turns onto me is quite amusing, especially since it’s coming from Dec, Mr. Indiscernibly Thoughtful. There’s a smidge of irony that I don’t understand but perhaps will one day. There’s mostly incredulity, though.
“Have you told him how you feel?” I ask.
“Should I need to?”
“Yes, if he’s insular.”
“Insular,” he echoes, amused. “That’s a nicer way of putting it. I’ve always called him a self-important wanker.”
“To his face?”
“Once or twice.” He smirks. It’s a terrible attempt to convince me that his father is of no consequence.
“Dec Ellis, do you have daddy issues?” I ask, surprised by my playfulness and thrilled more when he laughs lightly, making those gorgeous eyes of his twinkle under the sporadic glow of London by night through the window. And yet, whether it delights me or not, it’s another bad execution of indifference.