Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
The images my mind is creating are making me unsteady on my feet as all the blood rushes to my cock. “You take your time. I think you had the right idea. I’m going to take a shower while we still have hot water.”
She transfers her weight from foot to foot, and somewhere in my imagination, I like to think she’s wondering whether she should suggest she joins me.
I’m not going to need that hot water. I need to cool down.
“Okay,” she squeaks out and I turn and watch as she heads back into the bedroom.
I stand rooted to the spot, unable to move because I’m concerned my dick might break off, I’m so hard.
And then I realize, I’ve left my laptop open and my book, annotated with Mrs. Fletcher’s comments, on the desk in the bedroom.
Shit.
The blood drains from my dick and I sprint to the bedroom. I don’t even think to knock before I open the bedroom door and Ellie jumps at my intrusion. She’s standing over my laptop, running her finger on the open page of my manuscript. A mix of anger and fear balls in my throat.
She snaps her head around. “Hey.”
“That’s private.” I reach over and pull the papers from under her touch, snap my laptop shut and tuck it under my arm.
I can barely see, I’m so full of rage and disappointment.
Writing has become so precious to me that I need to protect it. Protect it from…
At the moment writing is mine and only mine. Yes, Nathan knows I’m writing, but he hasn’t read anything I’ve written. Mrs. Fletcher has, but she’s a professional and we’re both trying to achieve the same thing. She’s in my corner. She gets it.
Ellie is part of my world back on Wimpole Street, waiting for me to start a future I don’t want. She’s not going to understand, and I’m not prepared to defend myself. Not yet. Not until this book is done.
Eighteen
Ellie
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” I’m chanting to myself as I pull on my bra and fasten up my jeans. I wasn’t snooping. Okay, I was snooping. But he left it there.
I crash out of the bedroom, expecting to come face to face with Zach so I can apologize, but I find the living room empty. The shower starts to run. Shit.
I feel terrible. He looked so furious and sad at the same time. I didn’t mean any harm. I never wanted to upset him. I pace back and forth, waiting for him to come out of the bathroom, but he’s taking his time.
Maybe it’s better for us to cool down. Or for him to cool down at least. I’ve seen Zach disinterested and impolite, but I’ve never seen him furious.
I came here to prove that I’m good at my job. Not to be fired.
But it’s not just the job. I don’t want to upset him. He’s a good guy. And I like him. I really like him.
A familiar slurry fills my stomach, chugging guilt and shame and dread into my gut. I just want to crawl into a ball. At least with Shane, I knew his moves. I understood what I had to do to put things right again between us.
I glance at the door. I can’t leave. It’s too dark out and the snow has already started.
I exhale and try to think but my mind is too fuzzy. Too many memories are crashing together, too much regret and sadness.
I stagger to the kitchen. I need to distract myself. I need to cook. I can show him how sorry I am through my food.
I start to peel vegetables. There’s always something so satisfying about removing the skin of carrots and potatoes—tiny bursts of dopamine hit my brain each time I set down a fully peeled one.
I freeze as I hear the door to the bathroom open, but I don’t move. There’s no point in talking to him before he’s dressed. No one wants to get angry in a towel.
Or in a crash helmet, as Shane used to say.
I take a deep breath but it’s jagged and sharp. How could I have done this? I betrayed his trust. I should have just minded my own business. I know better than to snoop around, which come to think of it, is why Shane got away with cheating on me for as long as he did. He was always so adamant about me respecting his privacy. He used to say it worked both ways, but I never had anything to hide.
I start to slice the carrots as the door to the bedroom opens and closes, and then a door I can’t quite place—it seems too far away to be the bedroom or the study. Maybe it’s the bathroom, but no—
The sensation of the knife slicing through my index finger hits me before the pain.