Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 38306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Me: I even ended up scaring away an intern for no reason.
The Little Prince’s Rose: You scare people away all the time.
Me: Are you guys on my side or his?
The Little Prince’s Rose: Yours, which is why I need to ask. Why are you chatting with us again? You said you were in trouble but from where I’m sitting I think you’re just sexually frustrated.
I sit up in shock at TLPR’s words.
Sara Crewe: I’m going to have to agree.
I want to bang my head against the desk.
Sara Crewe: Jane? Are you still there?
I close my eyes in despair. It can’t be. It can’t be that what they’re saying is true...and that Mr. Rochester is right. Is all my inner torment simply because...I can’t wait for him to fuck me?
I MAKE A DASH FOR THE reception counter as soon as the clock strikes six and I’m officially off duty. I’m determined to avoid Mr. Rochester at all costs until I get myself together and I’ve thought things through. Even knowing there’s more than a grain of truth in my friends’ words, I just can’t make myself completely accept it—-
I mean, come on.
Am I really the kind of girl who would deliberately provoke a man so he’d notice her?
It’s a rhetorical question but the know-it-all voice residing in my head doesn’t seem to care and answers quickly – and slyly.
You’re the kind of girl who’s always been sexually passionate. You’re the kind of girl who’s always known that only a very special man can give you pleasure, and now that you’ve found him—-
The elevator doors open before me, and I use it as an excuse to shut my know-it-all inner voice off. I half run towards the revolving doors, just plain eager to put as much distance between everything that can remind me of Mr. Rochester and myself.
But the moment I step out to the street, the first thing I see is a familiar-looking limousine parked by the curb, and standing next to it is an equally familiar-looking chauffeur.
Shit.
I quietly and stealthily try to turn around and take another path, but the old man chooses that moment to glance my way and his expression brightens.
Shit.
He walks quickly towards me, saying, “Ms. Reed, good afternoon.” He tips his cap in a gesture of greeting. “I’m Sam, by the way. I was asked to wait for you.”
I gape. “You were?” And as I hear a couple of gasps from behind, I realize I’m not the only one surprised and that other people working for Mr. Rochester have overheard the chauffeur’s words.
And judging by their expressions, I think gloomily, they know exactly who had asked Sam to wait for me.
Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.
I take a step back. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. I’m not—-”
Sam scratches his head with a frown. “Ms. Mary Jane Reed?”
Shit. My heart falls to my stomach, but I still try to avoid the inevitable, stammering, “Maybe there’s another Mary Jane—-”
“Who was with him last night?”
Sam’s perplexed expression tells me he doesn’t mean anything by it, but I still want to strangle him. Behind me, surprise and shock have once again turned into resentment and envy—-
Sam opens the door. “Shall we go, Ms. Reed?”
“Sure, why not?” I answer dourly. At this rate, everyone’s already thinking the worst about me and I don’t see any way I can convince people otherwise.
As soon as the limousine gets moving, Sam tells me that we’re heading back to my place.
I perk up. “Really?” So maybe this is just a free ride—-
“Mr. Rochester asks that you pack only an overnight bag, Ms. Reed. I’ll personally take care of moving the rest of your belongings to Mr. Rochester’s home.”
Riiiiight. I study Sam calculatingly through the rearview mirror. “What if I tell you I’m being forced to move in with him?”
“I don’t think I quite heard you properly, Ms. Reed.” Sam studiously avoids my gaze as he answers, and a moment later the glass partition separating the driver’s section from the passenger area slides into place.
I guess I have my answer.
When we make it to my place, it only takes me half an hour to pack, but with every minute of it spent asking myself just one question. Why? Why am I letting Mr. Rochester get away with this?
Sam knocks on my front door, and I call out, “Come in.”
The chauffeur opens the door and pokes his head in, saying hesitantly, “Ms. Reed?”
“Yeah?”
“Is there anything I can help you with? I’m afraid Mr. Rochester is feeling a bit impatient and wishes that—-”
“Sam?”
“Yes, Ms. Reed?”
“Could you tell your boss something for me?”
“Yes, Ms. Reed.”
“Tell him,” I say sweetly, “to drop dead.”
Sam pales. “I’ll, ah, just wait outside the door, Ms. Reed.”
“Tell him that,” I insist even as the door closes behind him.
“I don’t quite hear you, Ms. Reed.”