Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Engaged? Why the fuck is she here with me?
I feel like my head’s about to explode. It’s not hurt I feel, just anger I’ve been so foolish.
I try and take a step toward her, and it’s not like the scenery and the helmet, the ski gloves and poles don’t remind me, but somehow, for a second, I forget I’m wearing skis and I trip over my own legs. I overcorrect and before I know it, I’m falling backward.
I feel the orange mesh fence that cordons off the edge of the mountain against my back, and for a split second, I think, yeah, I’m just going to land on my arse. Then time slows down and the orange mesh gives out. I’m not sure if I’ve toppled over it or pushed through it, but I’m kicking out my legs, trying to get my balance. I don’t even know which way is up at this point. And then I stop feeling the ground. Not on my hands, not on my legs.
I’m free-falling.
TWO
Vivian
Getting my own coffee is a luxury. Sounds weird, but the thing I’m looking forward to most now I’m in London is being able to go to a coffee shop. It’s just a flat white, but to me, it’s freedom. I used to get my own coffee in New York, until TMZ found out where I lived. I was ambushed, then I was papped coming out of my apartment building and it was plastered all over Page Six. Another resident of the building might have alerted them. New Yorkers don’t like celebrities in their buildings. They might have been trying to drive me out. But then again, it could have been my fiancé, determined to twist the knife he’d planted deep in my back.
I’ve tried to keep my outfit simple, just like in New York before I was outed. I’ve pulled on my training gear, nothing too attention-grabbing. I like to keep it plain and black—leggings, t-shirt and a zipped hoodie. No patterns, no large brand names that will make me stand out. I grab a Yankees cap, stuff my hair into it, pull my sunglasses on and go.
I’ve learned my lesson from New York and have rented a house in London. That way, there’s no doorman to be bribed for details of my coming and going, and no other residents to chatter about me to anyone who’ll listen. Nope, I can just arrive and leave as I please without being gawked at. Not even my manager knows where I am.
I pull my front door closed on the house on Chester Terrace. It’s a gorgeous cream stucco house that looks just as pretty as the pictures I saw online that made me want to rent it. Plus, it has a recording studio in the basement—not that I’ve used it since I arrived two days ago.
Because jet lag.
And heartbreak.
The outside of the house is surrounded by black iron railings, it’s a block away from Regent’s Park, and just two blocks from the coffee shop I’m about to test out.
I’ve been practicing a British accent. Vivian Cross definitely doesn’t have a British accent, so hopefully if someone does suspect it’s me, I’ll throw them off.
I put my earbuds in as I walk, but don’t turn them on. I need to know if someone is on to me, but I want to look the part. Head down, I turn left, away from the park. There aren’t many people about. It’s early after all.
A middle-aged man with a small dog—a Pomeranian or something—comes toward me. I keep my head down as we pass. He doesn’t seem to suspect anything. I glance over my shoulder, but he’s not looking back as if to say—was that Vivian Cross I just passed?
My heart inches higher in my chest. I’m doing this! I’m out in public and no one is noticing me.
I pass three more people before I get to Coffee Confidential, and none of them give me a second glance. I have to trap my lip between my teeth to stop myself from grinning like a Muppet.
Now’s the real test. I push open the door and it’s like the bell is as loud as Big Ben. I freeze at the sound, but no one turns around. One guy on the right looks up from his newspaper, but looks down immediately, like he’s waiting for someone and when he registers I’m not that person, he’s not interested. Suits me.
I take a breath and head over to the line. There are just two people before me.
The guy in front is tall with mussed light brown hair and a blue t-shirt. From the back, his broad shoulders make me feel like I’m on a yacht and he’s a sail. His navy polo shirt clings at his trim waist and he looks like he’s right out of a Ralph Lauren ad.