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)
I’ve never called Lo. She’s always called me, and I hate the reason behind that. Far be it from me to judge, but she clearly doesn’t want her husband to know about our friendship. I can’t blame her. If I were a man, I wouldn’t be pleased if my wife was meeting another man for lunch every week. And now dressing him too. It doesn’t matter that there’s nothing in it. I guess a husband would find that hard to believe.
I fall back in my chair, not liking the direction of my thoughts. She’s unhappy. Is he cruel to her? Does he treat her right? I find myself growling at my desk at the mere thought. Lo is the gentlest soul I’ve ever met. The notion that someone would treat her with anything less than the softness and respect she deserves makes me mad. “Stop, Luke.” It’s none of my business. But she’s a friend. Isn’t it right to worry about a friend? And I do worry. Each time I see her and the fleeting flashes of sadness before she quickly corrects it makes me worry. What kind of day has she had? What kind of week? What would her husband do if he found out about me? Come to think of it, how did she pass off her project last night, because I’m sure as shit her husband must have been wondering what she was doing and who she was doing it for. Did he ask? Did she tell? What would he do? Although . . . maybe Lo has told him about me. I mean, we’re just friends, and anyone who knows Lo knows she’s loyal to a fault. Maybe he’s so accepting of our friendship, Lo feels disappointed that it’s not posing a problem. Maybe she feels undervalued. Is that why she’s so sad?
My runaway thoughts are cut dead when my phone rings in my hand. I breathe out air I hadn’t realized I was holding when her name flashes at me. “Lo,” I answer, getting up and wandering to the window. What is that inside of me? Relief?
“Hey. Are you okay?”
I reach up to my brow and rub away some of the tension. “Yeah, I was just . . .” I pause before I get our conversation off on the wrong foot. One thing I’ve learned about Lo is that she’s sensitive to anything remotely directed towards her home life. “I’m still at the office.”
“Do you want me to come there? I have it all ready. Tell me there’s a prize for the best dressed, because you, Mr. Williamson, will win it.”
I laugh. She sounds so pleased with herself. “I don’t know.” I look out of the window across the city. It’s gray out there, misty and visibly cold. I can barely see the tops of the buildings through the dense fog. “Do you mind coming here? I don’t think I’m going to make it out of the office before six. I can shower here and head to the gig.”
“Sure. What time do you want me?”
“Well, how long will it take you to work your magic?” I return to my desk and pull up my emails, grimacing at the amount that have landed in my inbox since I left the office yesterday.
She considers my question for a beat. “An hour, I suppose.”
“Great.” I give her my office address and tell her to text me when she arrives so I can let her in, then hang up and start answering my emails.
At precisely one minute to six, my phone dings just as I’m shutting down my computer. I get up and text her back while on my way to let her in. As I approach the glass doors, the first thing that strikes me is despite her beaming face, she’s shaking like a damn leaf, her shoulders are hunched, her lips practically blue. The Tube station is only a few meters down the road. It must be colder than I thought.
I swing the door open, shivering myself when the cold hits me through my thin shirt, and quickly get her inside.
“Cinderella will go to the ball,” she sings, holding up her bag of goodies.
With her hair in a ponytail, I can see her ears. They’re red raw. “Jesus, Lo”—I place my palms at her temples, covering her ears— “you’re freezing.”
“It’s not that cold,” she argues, shrugging me away. I scowl. So does she, though hers is playful. Mine is not.
“You walked here, didn’t you?” She’ll catch her death, for Christ’s sake.
Her eyes leave mine, confirming my suspicions. And, fuck, I feel so fucking guilty. That must have taken her at least forty-five minutes. In the dark. The freezing cold. Shit. Why would she walk, damn her? She lives halfway across bloody town. You know why, Luke. I pause my mental rant right there, thinking. Thinking thoughts I really don’t want to think. Is she that hard-pressed that she can’t afford public transport? Which leads me to another question . . .