Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
The fall cut my skiing holiday short, but I can’t really complain. I didn’t want to hang around to say another word to Coral.
“How are you this morning? It’s Adele, right?” I ask, following her inside.
She pulls her mouth into a tight smile but she doesn’t reply. Silently, she communicates, Mate, fuck off. I’m not interested. Fair enough. She probably gets hit on by guys all the time—she looks like she might be cute if you strip off the dark glasses and cap.
The queue is shorter today and Adele goes right up to the counter. She doesn’t take long to place her order and move across to the collection station. She clearly doesn’t want anyone bothering her. She’s fixated on her mobile and is standing right up close to the station, with her front angled toward the wall—like she’s put herself in the corner for naughty behavior. I chuckle to myself. She really doesn’t want anyone bothering her.
“Good morning, beautiful,” I say to Kimberly, behind the counter.
“Hi Beau.” She beams at me. Is it me or are redheads always gorgeous? “Your usual?”
“I’m honored you remembered.” I place my palm on my chest, then hold out my phone to pay.
“How could any of us forget?” she asks, blushing at her own response. “You’re always so…happy.”
It’s nice to think me coming into her coffee shop adds something to her day—a serotonin hit or just an additional smile.
“Have a great day,” I say as I move over to the pickup station, making sure I give Adele her space.
They call out her name and without looking, she reaches out for her cup, still focused on her phone. She turns and charges toward the door. Before I can move, she slams into me and her scorching-hot coffee explodes onto my chest.
I react quickly and before I’m aware of the heat, which I know will come, I drop my phone and rucksack and strip off my t-shirt.
“Fuck,” I hear her say. “I’m so sorry.”
She turns back to the station and picks up some napkins and offers them to me. I take them from her. Not because I really need them—I have a towel in my bag. But I don’t want her to feel bad. “Thanks.” I smile at her. “I’m fine.”
“But your shirt.” She’s got dark glasses on, but I don’t need to see her eyes to know what she’s looking at. It’s the same thing everyone looking at me—bare-chested in the middle of the coffee shop—is focused on.
My scars.
A long time ago, I wasn’t as lucky as I was today when hot liquid came into contact with my body. My skin is long-since healed, but the marks remain. It’s like the skin on one side of my chest and my left arm has melted and rearranged itself. It’s a different texture to the skin on the rest of my body, and various areas remain numb to this day.
I was very lucky.
Today, the coffee down my front won’t require a hospital stay. Or permanent marks that will stay with me for the rest of my life.
I still have seven more lives.
“God, I’m so sorry,” she says again, still keeping her sunglasses fixed in place.
“It’s not a problem. Just an accident.” I dry myself off with the napkins, then wave my drenched t-shirt in front of me.
“Here,” she says, unzipping her hoodie. “Take my jacket.”
I laugh. “That’s very sweet of you, but I don’t think it will fit.”
“It’s oversized.”
“Still not quite big enough.” I rifle through my backpack and find another t-shirt—the one I was planning to wear on my run home.
“Can I buy you a new shirt?” She pulls out her wallet and starts to take out cash.
I put my hand on her wrist. “Stop. Seriously, I’m fine. My t-shirt will wash. There’s no harm done here.”
The barista calls my name. I pull on my fresh shirt but before I can grab my americano, Adele grabs it and hands it to me.
“Thanks,” I say. “That was nice of you.”
“At least let me pay for your coffee,” she says.
I laugh again. Why does this woman keep trying to give me money? “I’ve paid already. It’s all fine. Don’t worry.” I sling my rucksack on my back and make my way to the exit.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” she asks. “Should you get checked out by a medical professional?”
I hold the door open and she steps through. “I am a medical professional. I’m a doctor. And I’m honestly fine. You don’t need to worry.”
We stand outside on the pavement facing each other. Her dark glasses are huge and hide most of her face, but not her pillowy lips and sharp Cupid’s bow. She’s completely kissable. Coral might have cured me of any desire to settle down, but I’ve not turned into a monk. Is that blonde hair under that cap?