Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
“Tell me about your week.” I kick myself the second I make my request. Damn it, Luke. I’ve been having lunch with Lo for four weeks now. That question is a no-go zone. As is anything marriage related. Her face drops a little, no matter how much she tries to conceal it, and I kick my brain into action before I lose her and ruin our hour. Perhaps it should bug me that she doesn’t open up about her life, especially when the women I fuck rarely stop talking about themselves. But there’s something to be said for a woman who doesn’t want to throw all her woes at someone. She has a hidden strength that, matched with her sadness, somehow adds to her allure. “How’s Boris?” The dog. I can talk about the dog.
Her face immediately lights up, and her smile pulls its usual from me. These smiles are everything. I have to keep them on her face. “He’s great. Up to mischief as usual.”
“And your plans this weekend?”
Her face falls once more, and this time I drop-kick my arse across London. “Not much.” She shrugs, as if it’s nothing, when I just know it is everything. “You?”
I shoot her a screwed-up face. “I have a fancy dress party.”
Her silver eyes light up. “What’s the theme?”
“The fifties, and I haven’t a fucking clue what to wear.” Snagging the water, I unscrew the cap and neck half the bottle, offering it to Lo when I’m done. She drops what’s left of her lunch to a napkin and accepts.
“You’ve not got your costume sorted?” she asks, finishing the bottle. “Leaving it a little late, aren’t you?”
“I have no idea what I’m supposed to wear. Fifties?”
The bottle pauses halfway down to the table. “You have to be Danny Zuko.” The sudden excitement radiating from her slight frame is tangible. “It’ll be super easy to pull off too.”
“Who the fuck is Danny Zuko?”
Her face is one of utter disbelief. “Grease? Only the best film ever made.”
“Can’t say I’ve watched it.” I shrug. I’ve heard of it, of course. “What does Danny Zupo wear?”
“Zuko,” she says. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’ve never watched it.” I take offense to the shaking of her head, like I may have committed a serious crime. Apparently, I have. “All you need are some old jeans, a white T-shirt, Converse, and a leather jacket. We’ll customize it with the T-Birds logo.”
“Lo,” I say, leaning forward across the table. “Do I look like the kind of man who has a leather jacket and a pair of Converse knocking around in his wardrobe?”
Her pout is nothing short of adorable. “Converse is a staple.”
“Not in my world.”
“Then they soon will be.” She jumps up out of her chair and wriggles on her fur coat. “Come on.” She’s off out the door, while I’m still sitting at the table wondering what the hell is going on.
I turn on my seat. She’s holding the door open. “What are you doing?”
“We’re going to find all the ingredients to make you Danny Zuko.”
I stand, dubious. “And where might we find those ingredients in”—I look at my watch— “forty minutes?”
Sighing her impatience, she comes and collects me. I’m getting way too much disapproval today. “You forget, Mr. Williamson,” she says, dragging me to the door. “I specialize in vintage, and there’s a store just around the corner that can help us.”
I’m more or less thrust out of the café, and she’s off, jogging down the street, her plait bouncing wildly across her back as she goes. “Come on,” she yells, looking back at my static form.
I can only laugh as I go after her. Fuck knows what she’s going to make me look like, but her enthusiasm is way too infectious to stop her. It’s the most alive I’ve seen her since we met.
We land in the store, both of us slightly breathless, and the smell that hits me has my nose wrinkling. Jesus, it smells like old socks. Lo must catch my look because she smirks as she heads toward the nearest rail. “My store didn’t smell like this,” she says quietly, starting to sift through the rails. I’ve never seen a woman work so fast. She flicks item after item across, seeming to know exactly what she’s looking for. “Aha,” she sings, yanking out a leather jacket. She thrusts it up against my body and bites her lip in contemplation. “Try it on.”
“Yes, miss,” I quip, rolling my shoulders to remove my suit jacket. I look around for somewhere to lay it—somewhere non-smelly. There’s nowhere. “Here.” I thrust it at Lo and accept the leather jacket, trying not to breathe through my nose as I slip it on. “One thing is for sure,” I say, taking myself to the nearby mirror.
“What’s that?” She appears behind me, pulling and tugging at the material at the back, inspecting me in the reflection.