Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
“Who goes to the gym at eight on a Saturday morning, anyway?”
“Me.” I pout. “It sets me up for the day.” I pull a baguette from a basket as I pass the bakery section and swing it as I stroll. “So it’s a cheese coma and movie tonight?”
“Love it. Don’t worry about wine, I have a case full of that delicious French stuff. I’ve got to go, another two blokes just walked in.” Abbie hangs up, and I slip my phone into my gym bag, shifting it farther onto my shoulder, as I roam the rest of the aisles, tossing various sweet treats into my basket to try and even up the ratio with cheese.
Once I’ve paid, I wander out and cut through the park to Abbie’s, enjoying the pre-spring-morning chill on my clammy, post-gym skin. When I get back, I let myself in and toe my trainers off, dumping my shopping on the counter. “Alexa, play my favourite music,” I say, pulling out the packs of fruit and natural yoghurt. I pause, smiling to myself, when Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” starts playing from all the speakers around Abbie’s flat. “Alexa, volume up.” I wriggle out of my sweater and throw it on the chair before shimmying over to the cupboard to get a bowl. I load it up, dancing and singing my way around the kitchen as I make my breakfast and unpack my M&S haul before lowering to a chair to eat. I open my laptop and start browsing through the latest news bulletins between spoonfuls, checking for any news on Galactia. Nothing. Still a ton of whispers, people with theories, some conspiracies, but no concrete evidence that the company is onto something big. I pout and take a mouthful of yoghurt, resting back in my chair. “Come on, find the oil,” I whisper to my screen, sending my positive thoughts into the universe.
The sound of my phone ringing breaks through Blondie, and I hop up and hurry to where I dropped my gym bag. “Hey,” I puff, answering to Abbie. She talks as I wander back to the table, but I can’t hear her for the life of me. “Wait a minute,” I yell, lowering the volume on the Alexa.
“Having a private party?” she asks.
“Just letting my hair down while I have breakfast.” On that, I reach for my ponytail and pull out the hair tie, shaking my hair out.
“I know. Mrs. Hobbs just called me.”
“Who’s Mrs. Hobbs?”
“The old dear upstairs. She tried knocking on the door, but you obviously couldn’t hear her.”
I cringe. “Shit, sorry.” I hurry to the door and pull it open, finding an empty corridor. “Bring some flowers home for her?”
“Behave while Mummy’s at work, will you?” She hangs up, and as the screen clears, I see some missed calls. Five in total. Not Abbie. My heartbeat increases as I stare down at the known unknown number. His number. I go back to the table and lower to the chair. And it rings in my hand.
“Shit.” I startle and toss it across the table. It’s as if my head is telling me to get it as far away as possible to lessen the chances of me folding and answering. And it rings. And rings. And rings.
Shower.
Leaving my mobile on the table, I go take a shower, my hands working roughly through my hair, scrubbing the shampoo in as I mentally chant to myself. Tell myself to resist temptation. Walk away from the danger. Listen to my head.
By the time I’m done, wrapped in a towel, and have made it back to the kitchen, I have four more missed calls. “Jesus, give in, will you?” I murmur, wiping the screen clear.
It rings again. I freeze where I stand. My quivers increase. This is bloody crazy. “Hello,” I answer assertively, and yet I can hear the breathiness of my voice as well as I can feel my trembles. I don’t know what it is about this guy, but he ruins me.
“Do you always play hard to get?” he says, ruining me further with that rough but silky voice. I can suddenly smell him.
“I’m not playing anything,” I assure him.
“Sure. And what have you done on this fine Saturday morning?”
“I’ve been to the gym.” Are we having a chitchat? “And M&S.” My frown is massive. “You?”
“I was in the gym too.”
I still. “Which gym?”
“Not yours,” he confirms, and I deflate. “Because that would be weird, wouldn’t it?” I snort to myself. And this isn’t? “So tonight,” he goes on. “You’ll come to dinner with me.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
My forehead bunches as I sit, my mind turning in circles. It’s just dinner. But his approach, his tenacity, tells me otherwise. He doesn’t only want dinner. I growl at myself with frustration. “I don’t want to have dinner with you.”