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)
When was the last time anyone did that for me?
I don’t remember any woman putting me to bed and leaving me….
And I frightened her.
Shaking my head in self-disgust, I peel off my clothes and leave them on the floor where they fall. I’m too tired to do anything but crawl into bed. As I shut my eyes, I find myself wishing she had undressed me completely and joined me…here. I groan as I recall her sweet, wholesome scent, roses and lavender, and how soft she felt in my arms. Feeling simultaneously morose and aroused, I fall fast asleep and surrender to her in my dreams.
* * *
I wake with a start and an odd feeling of guilt. My phone is buzzing on my bedside table. I didn’t leave it there. I pick it up, but I’m too late. It’s a missed call from Caroline. I place it back on my bedside table, noting that my wallet, spare change, and a condom are also there. I frown, and then I remember.
Oh, God. Alessia.
I jumped her.
Bugger.
I screw my eyes shut to escape the embarrassment that washes over me.
Fuck. A. Duck.
I sit up, and sure enough my clothes have been tidied away. She must have emptied my jeans pockets. It seems such an intimate thing to do, rummaging through my possessions, her fingers on my clothes, my stuff.
I’d like her fingers on me.
That’s not going to happen, you idiot. You frightened the poor girl.
How many houses does she clean anyway? How many pockets does she rummage through? I dislike the thought. Perhaps I should hire her full-time. Then the dull ache in my gut would never go…unless…unless…There’s only one way I’ll be rid of this ache.
Shit. That’s not going to happen.
I wonder what the time is. There are no shimmers on the ceiling. Glancing out the window, I see nothing but a wall of white.
Snow.
The predicted blizzard has arrived. A glance at my alarm clock confirms it’s 1:45 P.M. She should still be here. I leap out of bed and in my dressing room pull on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt.
Alessia is in the drawing room, where she’s cleaning the windows. All evidence of my muddy walk through the flat has disappeared.
“Hi,” I say, and wait to see how she reacts. My heart is thundering. I feel like I’m fifteen years old again.
“Hi. You sleep well?” She gives me a brief but unreadable look, then studies the cloth she’s holding.
“Yes, thank you, and sorry about earlier.” Feeling ridiculous and self-conscious, I wave in the direction of the sofa where my misdemeanor took place. She nods and rewards me with a small, tight smile, and her cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink.
I look beyond her through the windows, where the view is obscured by swirling snowflakes. The snowstorm is in full force, and outside is a turbulent torrent of white.
“It doesn’t often snow like this in London,” I say, moving to stand beside her at the window.
We’re talking about the weather?
She steps beyond my reach, but she stares out of the windows. The snow is so dense I can hardly see the river below.
She shivers and wraps her arms around her body.
“Do you have far to go?” I ask, worried about her making her way home in this storm.
“West London.”
“How do you get home normally?”
She blinks a couple of times while she processes my words. “Train,” she answers.
“Train? From where?”
“Um…Queenstown Road.”
“I’ll be surprised if the trains are still running.”
I head over to my desk in the corner of the room, shuffle the mouse, and my iMac springs to life. A picture of Kit, Caroline, Maryanne, and me with Kit’s two Irish setters appears on my desktop, and with it I feel a wave of nostalgia and sadness. Shaking my head, I check online for the latest on local transport. “Um…South Western Trains?”
She nods.
“They’ve suspended all services.”
“Sus-pen-ded?” Her brow creases.
Oh, she doesn’t understand.
“The trains aren’t running.”
“Oh.” She frowns again, and I think I hear her say “suspended” several times under her breath, her lips forming the word.
“You can stay here,” I offer, trying not to focus on her mouth and knowing full well that she won’t stay, especially given how I behaved earlier. I flinch and add, “I promise to keep my hands off you.”
She shakes her head rather too quickly for my liking. “No. I must go.” She twists the cloth in her hands.
“How will you get home?”
She shrugs. “I shall walk.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll get hypothermia.”
Especially in those boots and that horrid excuse for a coat.
“I must return home.” She’s adamant.
“I’ll take you.”
What? Did that just pop out of my mouth?
“No,” she says with another emphatic shake of her head, her eyes growing wide.
“I’m not taking no for an answer. As your…um, employer, I insist.”
She pales.
“Yep. I’ll just finish getting dressed”—I glance down at my feet—“and then we’ll go. Please.” I gesture to the piano. “If you want to play, do.” And I turn and head back to my bedroom, wondering why I’ve volunteered to take her home.