Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Closing her eyes for one more minute, she delights in the rise and fall of his chest beneath her. She yearns to wrap her arms around him and curl up on top of him. But she can’t. She lets go of the cleaning fluid and the cloth, depositing them on the sofa, then reaches for his shoulders and shakes him gently.
“Please, Mister,” she whispers.
“Hmm,” he grunts.
She pushes a little harder. “Please. Mister. Move.”
He raises his head and opens his tired eyes, confused. His expression turns from confusion to horror.
“Please. Move,” she says again.
His hands fall away, releasing her. “Shit!” He sits up immediately and gapes at her in utter dismay as she scrambles off him. But before she can run, he grabs her hand.
“Alessia!”
“No!” she shouts.
And he lets go immediately.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I thought…I thought…I was…I must have been dreaming.” Slowly he stands, his face full of remorse, holding his hands up in submission. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He drags his hands through his hair and rubs his face as if trying to rouse himself. Alessia stays out of his reach but scrutinizes him and sees how strained and tired he looks.
He shakes his head to clear it. “I’m so sorry,” he says again. “I’ve been driving all night. I got in at four this morning. I must have fallen asleep when I sat down to undo my laces.” They both look at his boots and at the clumps of dried mud he’s left in his wake.
“Oops. Sorry,” he says with a sheepish shrug.
From deep inside, her compassion for this man blossoms. He’s exhausted, and he’s apologizing for making a mess in his own home? That’s not right. He has shown her nothing but kindness, giving her his umbrella, helping her into her coat, and when he caught her at the piano, he was complimentary and generous in his offer to let her play.
“Sit,” she says, spurred on by her compassion.
“What?”
“Sit down,” she says more forcefully, and he does as he’s told. She kneels at his feet and begins to untie his bootlaces.
“No,” he says. “You don’t have to do that.” Alessia bats his hand away, ignoring him, and undoes his boots, pulling each off in turn. Then she stands, feeling more confident that this is the right thing to do.
“You sleep now,” she says, and grasping his boots in one hand, she holds out the other to help him up.
He glances from her eyes to her fingers, his hesitation unmistakable. After a beat he takes her hand, and she hauls him off the sofa. Gently she leads him down the hallway and into his bedroom. There she releases him, draws back the duvet from his bed, and points. “You sleep,” she says, and walks around him to the door.
“Alessia,” he calls before she leaves his room. He looks despondent and uncertain. “Thank you,” he says.
She nods and exits, still holding his filthy boots. She closes the door behind her and leans against it, her hand at her throat in an effort to contain her emotions. She takes a deep cleansing breath. She’s gone from uncertainty and confusion to delight and wonder to compassion and assertiveness in the space of a few minutes.
And he kissed her.
And she kissed him.
She touches her fingers to her lips. It was brief but not unpleasant.
Not unpleasant at all.
I missed you.
She takes another deep breath to calm her pounding heart. She has to get a grip on reality. He’d been asleep. He’d been dreaming. He hadn’t known what he was saying or what he was doing. She could have been anybody. She shakes off her disappointment. She is just his cleaner. What could he possibly see in her? Feeling a little deflated, but with her equilibrium restored, she picks up the Mister’s leather duffel bag and heads back to the laundry room to clean his boots and sort his clothes for washing.
* * *
I stare at the closed bedroom door, feeling every shade of stupid known to man. How could I have been so fucking idiotic? I frightened her.
Shit.
I have no hope with her.
She’d appeared in my dream, a vision in blue—even in that ugly housecoat—and I’d welcomed her.
I rub my face in frustration. I’d left Cornwall at eleven the previous night, and the five-hour drive had been exhausting. It was a stupid thing to do. I nearly fell asleep several times. I had to open my car windows even though it was freezing and sing along to the radio to stay awake. And the real irony is that I drove home to see her. The weather forecast threatened a rare blizzard, and I didn’t want to be stuck in Cornwall for a week…so I came home early.
Fuck.
I’ve blown it.
But she knelt at my feet and undid my shoes and led me to bed as if I were a child. Led me to bed to sleep. I snort. To sleep!