Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Outside in the crisp, cold air, I dial Heidi. “How did it go?”
“She’s safely in the new house.”
I hesitate, not sure how to phrase the question and not sure why I care. “Did she like it?”
“She loved it. As always, Fabien did a great job. I think he’s a little smitten with Sabella.”
Even though I know he prefers men, that phrase fucks with my head. “I think I’ll fire him.” Or better yet, kill him.
She laughs. “Then you’ll have to fire me too.”
Not sure what to make of that, I scoff. “Don’t make my wife out to be an angel. Fabien just loves anything that’s beautiful. Correction—Fabien only loves beautiful things.”
“Yes, well,” she says with a haughty tone, “some people are blessed with external as well as internal beauty.”
Not in the mood for a lecture, I tell her in a gruff voice, “I’ll be home late tomorrow. You don’t have to prepare dinner.”
“Yes, sir.”
I end the call.
It strikes me then how much I’m looking forward to going home. I’ve never felt the pull this strongly, not when my family was alive and even less after their deaths.
It must be the prospect of laying claim to my wife’s sweet pussy. Of wanking off in her perfect body. Of using her for only as long as my cock stays hard. It can’t be wanting to spend time with her. I resent her way too much to crave the pleasure of her company.
Chapter
Eleven
Sabella
* * *
The following morning, I bake another chocolate cake. The second attempt isn’t much better than the first. The cake slopes toward one side, the crust blackened on that end.
It will have to do. I don’t have time to bake another, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get it right. This time, I close the window and let the cake cool on the table.
After eating a breakfast of oatmeal and honey, I dress in my warmest clothes, put on my coat, and wrap the cake up in a clean dishcloth. Armed with the cake, I set out to the village. Like the previous time, I use the backdoor in case someone is watching the house. No one can see me leave via the cliffside. I’m careful to keep to the bushes until I’m a good distance away.
During the week I was locked in my husband’s house, the cuts on my knee and my soles healed. My feet don’t ache when I put my weight on them any longer, so this time round, I appreciate the view during the two-hour long hike.
The small village is bustling with activity when I arrive. The reason is the market that’s set up in the square. I greet the vendors as I browse their produce. They reply with friendly smiles and curious expressions.
When I reach the pharmacy, I peer through the window. Mrs. Campana is inside, serving a customer.
I enter into the welcome warmth of the store, the familiar scent of eucalyptus wrapping around me, and wait for Mrs. Campana to finish with the customer. When the elderly lady leaves, I open the door for her.
“Thank you, dear,” she says in a croaky voice, leaning on her cane.
“Here.” I offer her an arm to help her down the step. “Careful.”
She flashes me a grateful smile and continues on her way.
“Well.” Mrs. Campana lifts her chin. “Look what the cat dragged in.” She waves a hand toward my head. “How’s your problem?”
“Gone.” I grin, turning this way and that to show her my hair. “That’s why I came, to say thank you. You saved my life.”
She folds her hands in front of her. “That’s a gross exaggeration, but I’m happy if I helped.”
“I can’t repay you yet.” I put the cake on the counter. “I brought something to thank you for your patience.”
Balancing her weight on her toes, she leans forward to study the object. “That wasn’t necessary.” She scrunches up her nose. “What is it?”
A little embarrassed, I unwrap the dishcloth. “I’m afraid it’s only my second attempt.” I suck air through my teeth. “It’s supposed to be a cake. Chocolate.”
She pulls a face. “Hmm.”
“I thought it could be nice for your teatime break.”
“Hmm,” she says again.
“Anyway, I just wanted to drop that off and say thank you.”
I’m about to turn when she says, “I’m not a great baker myself. That’s what the bakery is for. Each to his own, as I always tell my husband when he complains about my lack of skills in the pastry department.”
“Thanks for saying that.” I add jokingly, “My cake is eternally grateful for your lack of discrimination. It’s not a looker, but it’s a really nice cake on the inside.”
A smile plucks at her lips. “In any event, baking is overrated. Who has time for that?” She adds with a sly look, “Except for Mrs. Filippi who has nothing to do but gossip all day.” She leans closer and lowers her voice. “The secret is in buying the box mix.”