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)
No, Brentford is not her home.
She doesn’t know where her next home will be.
Determined to keep her spirits up, she lets go of that thought and listens once more to the extraordinary sounds coming from the sound system. The colors are clashing: purples, reds, turquoise…it’s like nothing she’s heard before.
“What is this music?” she asks.
“It’s from the soundtrack of Arrival.”
“Arrival?”
“The film.”
“Oh.”
“Have you seen it?”
“No.”
“It’s great. A real headfuck. About time and language and the difficulties of communication. We can watch it at home. Do you like the music?”
“Yes. It’s strange. Expressive. And colorful.”
His smile is brief. Too brief. He has been brooding. She wonders if he’s dwelling on their earlier conversation. She has to know. “Are you angry with me?”
“No. Of course not! Why would I be angry with you?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. You are quiet.”
“You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“I am sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologize. You haven’t done anything wrong. If anything…” He trails off.
“You have not done anything wrong,” she says.
“I’m glad you think that.” He gives her a quick, sincere smile that dispels her doubts.
“Is there any food you don’t eat?” she asks, and wishes she’d found out before they went shopping.
“No. I eat pretty much anything. I went to boarding school,” he answers, as if this explains his entire ethos on food. But Alessia’s knowledge of boarding schools is limited to Enid Blyton’s Malory Towers, a favorite book series of her grandmother.
“Did you like it?” she asks.
“First one no. I was expelled. The second one yes. It’s a good school. I made good friends there. You met them.”
“Oh, yes.” Alessia blushes as she remembers the two men in their underwear.
They settle into an easier conversation, and by the time they arrive home, she’s more cheerful.
* * *
We carry the bags into the house, and while Alessia unpacks the groceries, I take her clothes upstairs. I put them in the spare bedroom, then change my mind and place the bags in the walk-in wardrobe in my room. I want her in here with me.
It’s presumptuous.
Fuck.
I’m tangling myself in knots. I don’t know how to behave with her.
Sitting down on the bed, I put my head in my hands. Did I have a game plan before we got here?
No.
I was thinking with my dick. And now…well, I hope I’m thinking with my head and following my heart. During the drive home, I contemplated what to do. Should I tell her that I love her? Should I not? She’s given me no indication of how she feels about me, but then she’s reticent about most things.
She’s here with me.
That means something, surely?
She could have stayed with her friend, but that would have meant those gangsters returning and finding her. My blood turns to ice. I shudder to think what they would do to her if they did. No. I was her only option. She has nothing. How could she go on the run?
Yet she arrived in the UK with nothing, and she survived. She’s resourceful, but at what cost to herself? The thought weighs heavily on me. What did she do during the time between her arrival and finding Magda?
The anguish in her eyes in the restaurant. It was…affecting.
I’m tired of being afraid.
I wonder how long she’s felt this way. Since she got here? I don’t even know how long she’s been in the UK. There’s so much I don’t know about her.
But I want her to be happy.
Think. What to do?
First. We have to make her legal here. And I have no idea how to do that. My solicitors should know the answer. I can only imagine Rajah’s face when I tell him I’m harboring an illegal immigrant.
Her grandmother was English. Maybe that will help.
Fuck. I don’t know.
What else could I do?
I could marry her.
What?
Marriage?
I laugh out loud, because the idea is so absurd.
Why not?
It would freak my mother out. For that reason alone, it’s worth popping the question. Tom’s words from our night at the pub come back to me: You know, now that you’re the earl, you’ll need to provide an heir and a spare.
I could make Alessia my countess.
My heart starts hammering. That would be a bold move.
And maybe a little sudden.
I don’t even know if she has feelings for me.
I could ask her.
I roll my eyes. I am going round and round in circles. The truth is, I need to find out more about her. How could I ask her to be my wife? I know where Albania is on the map, but that’s about it. Well, I can put that right, now.
I drag my phone out of my pocket and open Google.
* * *
It’s dark when my phone starts to complain about its remaining battery life. I’m sprawled across the bed, reading everything I can about Albania. It’s a fascinating place, part modern, part ancient, with a turbulent history. I’ve found Alessia’s hometown. It’s in the northeast, nestled among mountain ranges and a few hours’ drive from the capital. From all I’ve read, it does appear that life is more traditional in that region.