Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 42637 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 213(@200wpm)___ 171(@250wpm)___ 142(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42637 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 213(@200wpm)___ 171(@250wpm)___ 142(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” I lied quickly. “I’m fine.”
His brow furrowed, but he let it go, taking my hand again and tugging me forward. “Let's stop for a drink.” I didn't have time to respond before he led us toward a little tavern.
The interior was cozy inside with the warm glow of lanterns reflecting off the wood-paneled walls and lumber beams above us. The smell of roasted meat and ale filled the air along with the sound of cheerful chatter from the patrons. And for a moment, I let myself relax.
We took our place at a little two-seater table, and Laszlo ordered us drinks, his fingers brushing my arm as he leaned closer to say in my ear, “This is nice, isn’t it? Just you and me?”
I nodded, forcing a smile just as our drinks arrived. I once again kept my comments to myself regarding I was a grown ass woman and could order my own drink. I picked up my glass of wine and took a long sip.
We didn’t speak for a moment, and the longer we stayed silent, the more I felt uncomfortable. Every time Laszlo touched me, a strange unease crept over me as if the surrounding air had grown heavier, colder.
It wasn’t just unease—it was dread, the kind that made my chest tighten and my pulse race. It was such an intense sensation and feeling to have that I knew this just wasn't going to work out.
I couldn’t be with him anymore.
But here and now wasn’t the time. I sipped my wine as Laszlo talked about his travel again. I let him ramble on about his plans to take me back to London after my internship, and how he’d “missed me too much to stay away.”
I took a drink every time I felt grossed out. And before I knew it, I’d emptied my glass and ordered another one.
Laszlo didn’t notice my discomfort and kept having a one-sided conversation. This was a familiar scenario between us.
But I wasn’t listening. My mind was elsewhere, my gaze flicking to the door every so often as though expecting someone—or something—to walk in.
The patrons inside the tavern grew more boisterous the more they drank.
“Hello?” Laszlo said, snapping his fingers in front of my face.
I blinked several times and turned my head to look at him. “Sorry,” I said, but there was no sincerity in that lone word.
He finished his whiskey, ordered another one, and finished that one in a matter of seconds.
“Pardon,” a man beside me said as he accidentally bumped into me when he leaned against the bar and ordered another drink.
I smiled politely at him. “No worries.”
The man gave me a wide smile. “You’re not from here.”
I shook my head, feeling Laszlo’s stare latched on me like it was a noose around my neck. This friendly encounter was for sure gonna add fuel to this imaginary fire Laszlo had conjured up in his mind.
“I can tell. You look like a city woman even without saying a word.” He looked at the ceiling and started murmuring in Romanian, clearly assuming I didn't understand him because of my foreign accent.
I smiled because he was mumbling about not speaking English well enough, and he’d fuck this up and look like a drunken asshole to a visitor in his beautiful village. I could have spoken in Romanian, but before I could say anything, the local man grabbed his drink, said he’d leave before making an idiot out of himself, and to enjoy my evening while he left.
I chuckled and shook my head, taking a drink from my glass and still feeling Laszlo staring at me.
It was only a second of silence before he went in on me. “What the fuck, Clara?” His cheeks were pink, and when I looked at him, he was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched.
Great, he was getting drunk and getting pissed.
“Always pulling strangers into our conversations,” he ground out.
I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t pulling anyone into anything,” I said. “He was just being friendly.”
“Too friendly,” Laszlo muttered as he downed the rest of his third drink.
I didn’t miss the way his hand gripped the glass a little too tightly, his knuckles white from the force. I tried to steer the conversation back to neutral ground, but I could see the more I spoke, the more he got annoyed.
“What the hell? You’re always invalidating how I feel and what I think,” he spat, his voice low but heated.
“Laszlo, stop,” I said, glancing around as a few patrons looked our way because he was raising his voice and making a scene.
But he didn’t stop. “What, are you collecting admirers now? Is that why you came all the way out here?”
I exhaled loudly, rubbed my temples, and knew he had to go back to London. I wasn't doing this shit. “Laszlo, enough,” I hissed, glaring daggers at him. I’d never raised my voice, never allowed myself to vent my anger outwardly.