Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
I hold on to my laughter. Just. The poor man. “How many Jasmine’s are there, Luke?” I ask, sensing there are a few. My thoughts are only confirmed when he cocks a brow at me. “All mid-twenties?” I ask. And perfectly preened too, I expect. Luke has a type, and I’m quite relived that I’m not it.
“Older women want babies and marriage,” he mumbles, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Don’t judge.”
“I’m not judging.” I’m totally judging.
“Liar.” He scowls through his smirk, and it goes completely over my head as I glance down at my phone.
“Shit!” I jump up, grabbing my bag and coat. “I’ll be late back to work.”
Luke stands, collecting all of our rubbish. “Same time next week?”
I falter in my movements, slightly taken aback. But I can’t deny it’s been fun hanging out with him, if only for half an hour. Call me selfish, but it’s been a relief seeing someone else’s problems, even if they’re trivial. It takes my focus off my woes. It’s like having a clean slate with Luke. He has no idea about my situation, and, hopefully, given his mental age of twenty—funny man—he won’t ask. And we can stay in this easy and carefree friendship. And for that reason, I feel comfortable about accepting his offer. “Sure.” I skirt round the table. “Thanks for lunch.” I reach up and kiss his cheek. “See you next week,” I call, jogging out of the coffee house.
Part Three
Chapter Seven
I pull the cue back and smack the white, sending it sailing up the table. Connecting with the balls on a piercing smack, it disperses them far and wide. I pocket two yellows.
“Jammy bastard,” Todd mutters. His Scottish accent is mild after twenty years in London, but it’s always thicker when he’s pissed off. Like now. Losing. He snarls as he sups his beer. “I’m not playing anymore. You’re practicing while I’m not here.” He tosses his cue on the floor and stomps his way to the bar.
I laugh my way over to him, keeping hold of my cue. “You know the solution to your problem, right?” I ask, taking a stool as he hitches an eyebrow over the rim of his bottle. “Build yourself a man’s room like mine.” I motion around the room in my home that’s been converted into the best kind of man’s hangout. A pool table, a jukebox, a dart board, and a bar. “Then you can practice all you like, and maybe someday you’ll beat me.”
“My apartment has no spare space,” he grumbles, slumping over the bar. “And girlie shit is appearing left and right taking up what available space there is left.”
“Ohhhh.” I flinch on his behalf. “Has she got a drawer yet?”
“Two,” he spits. “I’ve been seeing her for a month.” His head hits his forearms on the bar, and I smile at his exasperation. I know how he feels. “Now she wants to know when I eat, piss, and shit.”
“Get out, bud. Get out now.”
He physically shudders. “How long do you think it’ll be before she gets the message?”
“Never. Women are good at ignoring what’s staring them in the face,” I tell him, slapping him on the back as I get down from my stool. I head for the jukebox and put on some music. Nelly Furtado. “Maneater.” Perfect.
Todd slowly lifts his head and tosses me a dark look. “Prick.”
I chuckle my way back to the pool table and pot a few more balls. “Hadn’t you ought to be going home before she comes looking for you?”
“I might slum it in Luke’s Bar.” He points his bottle to the comfiest leather couch on the planet. It doubles as a bed for Todd at this stage in most of his relationships. If you can call them relationships. Accidental relationships.
“I like my own space,” I tell him, not for the first time. He doesn’t ask my permission to invade my couch. “Go see Bert. He’ll give you nifty advice.”
Todd smiles at the mention of my grandfather. “How is the legend?”
I cast my mind back to yesterday when I paid him my usual visit. “Well, he can still drink me under the table.”
“That’s not hard,” Todd says, polishing off his beer. “You’ve always been a lightweight.”
“Not a lightweight. Sensible. The last time I got so drunk I couldn’t remember anything, I wound up with an ankle biter.”
Todd sighs, and another smile comes, this time at the mention of my ankle-biter, who isn’t much of an ankle-biter anymore. At twenty-three, she’s a woman, and that’s a fucking kick in the teeth for my ego. Where the hell did those years go? “Where in the world is she now, then?” Todd asks.
“Rio.” I grab my phone and pull up my texts, passing it over the table to my friend. He looks at the image that Tia sent me yesterday, smiling brighter.