Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
I’ve answered Becker Hunt’s every demand, and he’s certainly been demanding, from finding files to making calls; from providing information, to cross-referencing a few pieces. His orders are always short, snappy, and curt, and he’s hardly looked at me since Brent asked me to dinner last week. His abruptness, and the fact he’s obviously avoiding me, has suited me just fine. Immunity is easier with minimal contact.
Now I’m curled up on one of the leather chesterfields in The Haven’s library after giving myself a few minutes respite. It’s been non-stop this week.
Mrs Potts pokes her head around the door, her violet bomb of a hairstyle glowing vividly. ‘It’s gone six, Eleanor.’ She smiles at the pile of books stacked next to me on the couch.
‘It has?’ I ask, glancing down at my watch.
‘Time melts away at The Haven, dear.’ She smiles warmly. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen.’
‘Okay,’ I say as she slips out. I unravel my body from the couch, feeling a little stiff, but a quick stretch of my arms above my head soon sorts me out, before I put the books in their rightful places.
My phone rings, and I answer as I make my way to the kitchen. ‘Hello?’
‘Eleanor?’
I pull to a stop, not recognising the voice. ‘Yes?’
‘Brent Wilson.’
‘Oh, Brent.’ I cringe. I never called him about that dinner. To be honest, I threw his card in my bag and didn’t think much more about it. Someone else stole my thoughts for the rest of that day, and I’ve spent most of my time battling to keep Becker Hunt in a safe part of my brain. Like the professional part. Besides, I’m off men. A few more emails from my ex begging to see me reminded me of that. ‘Hi,’ I squeak.
‘I thought I’d see if you’re available for dinner this evening?’
‘Well, I’m . . .’ I grapple with myself to find a reasonable explanation to decline. ‘Wait. How’d you get my number?’
‘If a man wants something, he’ll find it,’ he answers smoothly. ‘So, dinner?’
‘Brent, it’s really very kind of you to offer, but . . .’ I turn on the spot, willing some more words to follow – words that’ll be tactful, rather than a flat refusal. I’m really not interested in dinner, with him or anyone.
As I glance up, something catches my eye down the corridor, and I find myself taking a step back. Becker is standing outside his office, watching me. He has a scowl in place. He’s been listening to my call? Something comes over me – something childish and silly. ‘I’d love to, Brent,’ I say, my eyes fixed on Becker’s. His jaw starts to tick. ‘I’m just finishing work.’
‘Great. I’ll meet you at The Wolseley at eight.’
‘See you then.’ I disconnect the call, wilting under Becker’s fierce expression for a good few seconds before he drags his eyes away and turns, disappearing back into his office. I bite my lip and start walking backwards, my eyes rooted on the engraved door until I reach the bathroom. I feel like I just leapt back on to dangerous ground. What game am I playing?
After I’ve used the loo and collected my bag and coat, I head for the kitchen. ‘Eleanor.’ Old Mr H is sitting at the table when I enter, and Mrs Potts is sliding a roast beef dinner towards him. ‘Come and tell me how you are.’ He taps the seat next to him. ‘Still enjoying it here?’
‘Absolutely, yes.’ That’s the understatement of the century.
‘And your mum. Is she okay?’
I smile fondly; I appreciate that he asks. He does most days since I told him she’s back home and missing me terribly, though happy I’m finally doing what I really love. ‘She’s good, thank you, Mr H.’
‘Super.’ He smiles brightly. I want him to be my grandad. Becker Hunt might be all kinds of difficult, but his grandad, Mrs Potts, and even Winston, more than make up for that. I’ve become so fond of them.
‘Eat up,’ Mrs Potts demands, pointing to Mr H’s knife and fork that are laid neatly on the table.
‘Yes, yes,’ he grumbles moodily, scooping them up and looking at me expectantly. ‘Would you like some supper? Dorothy makes a mean roast.’
I glance over to Mrs Potts, who’s rolling her eyes. ‘Thank you, Mr H, but I have a date this evening. I need to go home and get myself ready.’
‘A date, you say?’ He jiggles suggestive eyebrows, making me laugh.
‘I’ll see you out,’ Mrs Potts says.
‘Thank you. Have a good evening, Mr H.’
He forks a piece of beef and waves it in the air, rolling his eyes. ‘Yes, I’ll be partying and falling into bed in the early hours, don’t you worry.’
‘Those days are gone, Donald.’ Mrs Potts laughs, gesturing the way.
He takes a mouthful and chews. ‘Whoever the lucky man is, I hope he treats you like a lady.’