Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I grin widely at him, even though I know he’s not joking. He’s just so crotchety, it’s funny. “You stick to the drinks, George. I’ve got the food sorted.”
He grumbles. I know he’s grateful I made it in tonight. There’s a bug going around and Meghan, who was meant to be on shift, called in sick. We’re a waitress down, but I can handle it. It’s a Monday. Nothing ever happens on a Monday. Although we did have the tall, gorgeous American come into the tea shop today. He was mouth-wateringly good-looking, but it was his confidence that sealed the deal. He just had a way about him that made me want to shimmy out of my knickers.
I sift through the menus by the till, checking they’re the right way around and adjust the ones that have been put back incorrectly. Then I grab a pad and a pen and put them in the pocket on the front of my apron. I glance around again, checking I haven’t missed anything, when I spot something I haven’t seen before on the oak shelf that runs around the room, about thirty centimeters below the ceiling. It’s filled with small pictures and trinkets from the estate—a horseshoe, a brass box, earthenware vases filled with dried flowers that do nothing except collect dust. Every now and again, when we’re quiet, I’ll pull each thing down and clean it, so I know exactly what’s up there. But today, what looks like a yellow plate has found its way into the mix.
“George,” I call. “What’s the yellow dish on the shelf?” It’s not a big deal and really it’s none of my business. It’s just, for the five years I’ve had this job, nothing new has ever just appeared up there.
There’s no response from George, so I pull out one of the chairs and place it underneath the shelf. I want to get a better look.
It seems like a plain, yellow dish. What’s that doing there? It stands out against the time-worn items that have been there forever. Why would George put it up there? The beamed ceilings are low and I can just about touch the back of the shelf if I stand on tiptoes.
I grab the plate, and as I do, a voice booms behind me, “It’s you again.”
All my instincts fight each other. I want to turn to see who’s talking to me, but at the same time, I want to keep my balance and make sure I don’t smash the plate.
But all my instincts fail me and I don’t manage to do any of those things.
Everything starts to blur and I lose my balance at the exact same time as my fingers fumble and the dish slips from my hand. Time slows, and as I fall backwards, I try to picture what I’m going to land on, and whether I’m going to end up missing my shift tonight because I’m going to have to go to hospital with a head injury or a broken leg. I wonder if I’ll still be able to make my shift in the tea shop tomorrow, and whether Sandra will be able to hold down the fort without me. Tuesdays are busy. We always get at least two coach parties.
Falling is so inconvenient. But I close my eyes and brace for impact.
I don’t hit the ground like I expect to. It’s like someone’s pressed a pause button, and I stop midair.
It takes me a beat to figure out someone’s caught me.
I open one eye and realize I must be passed out and dreaming about the handsome American stranger from the tea shop—the one who gave me a knicker allergy. I shut my eyes again and realize if I’m consciously opening and closing my eyes, maybe I’m not unconscious.
Heat floods my body and I open my eyes in a flash.
“You caught me,” I say.
“I did.” His voice is deep and sonorous and I can feel it vibrate between my thighs. “Are you napping or can you stand?” he asks.
“I’d like a nap,” I reply, gazing up into his eyes. “Unfortunately, I can’t do that until after my shift ends. I suppose I should stand.” I’m acutely aware of his hands on me—at the top of my thighs and under my back. He’s big, like an adult-sized cradle. It’s almost as if he were made for catching me.
“We can give it a few minutes, if you’d just like to rest.” He grins at me.
“Awww, thanks. Maybe just until the first customer arrives. You are extremely . . .” I try and find the right word. Sexy? Yes, that would work, but a tad inappropriate given he’s a stranger and a man I’m likely to serve up a burger to within the hour.
“You mean the second customer arrives,” he says.
“Oh I suppose so, if you’re counting yourself.”