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)
And my resistance.
I slide my mobile off the nightstand, calling Dad to see what he’s up to—and how he’s taking Mum’s newfound ambition. She’s always been steadfast in her role as wife, mother, and homemaker. I’m happy for her, but I’m certain it will have thrown my dad for a loop.
“Morning,” I say when he answers, propping myself up against the pillows.
“Morning, darling,” he chirps back, surprising me. I expected sulks.
“What are you up to today?”
“You mean because your mother is off gallivanting on the weekend when we should be spending time together?”
I smile and roll onto my side. “You’re supposed to be retired, therefore have all week to spend time with Mum.”
“Exactly,” he says over a laugh. “I retired and your mum goes and gets herself a bloody job.”
“She’s helping out. And you’re not retired if you still go into the office most days.”
“I like to know what’s happening.”
“Right,” I breathe, throwing the covers back and getting up. “So, what are you doing with yourself?” Let’s steer the conversation away from working. I must look into those golf lessons.
“I’ve got a suit fitting.”
“Oh, nice.”
“And Clark and I are having lunch with his best man, what’s his name?”
“Grant.”
“That’s the one. Grant. And the ushers.”
I put the kettle on. “Lovely.”
“Then your brother is taking me to some of those microbrewery places he always raves about.”
“Don’t get drunk.”
“You know me, darling. I don’t surrender to the weakness of alcohol.”
“God forbid.” I grab a cup down and stuff a tea bag in before going to the fridge to get the milk.
“And what are you doing today?” he asks.
I still, the fridge door open. What am I doing? Good question. “Looking for an apartment.” I must check in with the agents.
“Oh?”
“Well, I can’t stay with Abbie forever, and you drive me nuts . . .”
“The cheek!”
“I’m joking.” I laugh, carrying my milk across the kitchen and finishing my tea. “I’ll pop by tomorrow.”
“Okay, darling. Have a good day.”
“And you. Send me pictures.” I hang up and slide my phone onto the counter, taking my tea and wandering around Abbie’s apartment in my I Need a Hug That Leads to Sex hoodie. I’m hoping to also find my sense as I roam aimlessly, clutching my tea with both hands.
Three laps and a full cup of tea later, there’s no sense to be found. And for the first time since it was bought for me, I agree with my hoodie.
I shower, shave, wash my hair, moisturise, blow-dry my hair—leaving it down—apply tinted moisturiser, dab some blush into my cheeks, a few strokes of mascara and some gloss, and pack my bag. Dinner in one of the Michelin-starred restaurants.
I pluck out my black satin slip dress and gold KG heels, then stand wrapped in my towel wondering . . . what should I wear? I flick through my hangers, passing my work suits and dresses, my gym kit, my loungewear, heading for the casual weekend section of my wardrobe. Jeans. Too casual. A dress? Not warm enough. I settle on some cream slouchy trousers by Reiss and a cropped satin shirt. I finish by twisting the straighteners through my hair, looking into my eyes the whole time, asking myself if I know what I’m doing.
No. The answer is no. And yet I continue going through the motions as if on the outside looking in on myself preparing for . . . what?
I know what. It won’t be a hug. I know what’s going to happen if I accept his invitation and go to Arlington Hall.
I’ll be in even deeper.
I take a breath, wondering how deep this can go. It’s obvious what kind of man Jude Harrison is. But what’s the harm in taking what he’s got to offer? No strings attached.
Because that kiss . . .
My body rolls just thinking about it. It was nothing short of extraordinary. It’s as if he knew if he could just get our mouths to touch, I’d never say no again.
And I fear I won’t.
When I hear a car pull up outside, I go to the window and move the curtain back. An old gent in a green suit and hat steps out and opens the back door. I swallow. “Here goes nothing,” I say to myself, collecting my bag and cream dustcoat and taking one last breath of confidence before leaving. I pull the door closed and smile lightly when the driver tips his hat.
“Miss Lazenby,” he says, adjusting his round specs as he motions to the car. “I’m Humphrey, your chauffeur for today.”
“Nice to meet you, Humphrey.” I approach, offering my bag when he reaches for it. “Thank you.” I slip into the back of the plush Rolls-Royce and glance around at the incredible luxury. The softest leather I’ve ever felt, a bottle of San Pellegrino sparkling water in the seat rest, enough dials and switches to operate a spacecraft. He nods and shuts the door, and I hear the boot open and close.