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)
‘Nothing.’ I shoot over and swipe my dress from the floor, except my dress isn’t safely in my grasp. At least, not all of it. Half of it is still puddled loud and proud by my feet, laughing at me.
Lucy moves fast, crouching down to pick up the ragged material, then flaps it out as she stands again, holding it up in front of her, hiding what I know will be an interested face. Too many awkward seconds pass before she slowly lowers my tattered dress and hits me with reproachful blue eyes.
‘You mean to say that while I’ve been repeatedly calling you and racing across town to get home and make sure you’re safe, you’ve been getting some action?’
‘No, I—’ My feet start moving back, away from Lucy’s threatening stance. Many lame excuses start to jump into my fraught mind. ‘I caught my dress on the railings outside.’ And I choose the lamest.
‘Eleanor,’ she yells, making me flinch. ‘I’ve just cast aside a hot bloke to come looking for you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I throw the half of my dress I’m still holding to the ground in a temper. ‘I didn’t plan it. He followed me home.’
‘Who did?’ She looks at me with narrowed eyes, making me inwardly squirm.
‘My boss,’ I mumble moodily under my breath.
Any hope I had of forgetting about everything that’s happened has just been blown away with the shocked breath currently gushing from Lucy’s mouth. ‘Him?’
‘Or ex-boss,’ I correct myself quickly. ‘I quit.’
‘Oh, this is fucking perfect.’ She mimics my actions and throws her half of my dress to the ground, too, although hers lands with much more force. She’s really pissed off. ‘I can’t talk to you right now.’ She storms past me, and I sigh, thinking she’s being ridiculously melodramatic, but telling her so probably won’t help my cause. So, I remain with my mouth zipped safely shut and watch her walk across the corridor to her own flat. The key is slipped into the lock, the door pushed viciously open, but before it gets slammed, she turns and raises her chin in the air, looking me up and down. I brace myself for a scornful attack. ‘Did he really rip off your dress?’
My lips press together, and I nod, that regret creeping back up on me. ‘It’s one of my favourites as well.’
‘And you quit?’
I nod again.
‘I want to hear all about it tomorrow,’ she sniffs, and then slams the door, leaving me alone again. But now, I’m wide awake and dreading tomorrow more than ever. Silent torture would be bad enough. Having to give Lucy a blow-by-blow account of my reckless encounter with Becker Hunt makes me want to leave London immediately.
Chapter 16
I avoid my inbox like the plague when I start my laptop the following morning, concentrating on ordering a new phone to be delivered tomorrow before trawling the job sites for anything remotely appealing as I spoon cornflakes into my mouth. It’s nine, I’m still in my PJs, and Lucy has made a brief appearance to tell me I’m meeting her for lunch to provide every detail. She looked especially lovely today, and it doesn’t require a genius to figure out why. I’m keen to hear what goes down at Lucy’s place of work this morning with Mark, but I’m not so eager to share the events that resulted in me spending all morning searching for another job.
My eyes flit across my unmade bed, and then to my door where he stood, poised and ready to jump me – which he did like an animal. I relax back on the couch, my spoon held limply in my hand as my mind wanders. I can still feel him between my thighs, that soreness he promised, making it impossible to forget about my mistake. Then I shift on the couch and wince, the tenderness of my bottom adding to my memories. With all these physical reminders, I anticipate it to be a good week before I can make any serious effort to move on, and an irrational part on me wonders whether that was his intention. I wouldn’t put it past him. Becker Hunt likes to leave a lasting impression.
Before I can fall too deeply into the whys and wherefores, I sit up straight and return my attention to my laptop, clicking through page after page of jobs, seeing nothing that even remotely fits the bill, and after I’ve lapped the same pages for the third time, I finally give in to my fate and click on an advert for a waitress position. ‘It’s just for the time being,’ I tell myself, scanning the ad for a telephone number. I find it and go to stand, set on calling before I talk myself out of it, but then I remember . . . I have no phone. Because that bastard destroyed it. ‘Shit.’ I then spot an email address on the ad. This should be a simple task, an easy alternative to calling, but the thought of loading my email account stalls me. There could be all kinds of monsters from my past lingering there. Could be. There might not be.