Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not. Last Christmas, Mum handed him a piece of pie, and his girlfriend starts in on him about how he’s put on a few pounds.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Mind you, my brother has, like, six percent body fat. The bloke’s lips have abs.”
I laugh at the hint of jealousy in Jack’s voice. The competition in that family must be on another level.
“Mum hates her.”
I absorb all the information he gave me, realizing that despite having lived together for two months, this is the first time Jack has offered a more in-depth look at his family life. Before tonight, all I knew about him was that he has some siblings and likes rugby, going to the pub, and walking around shirtless. And that his favorite meal of the day is breakfast, or brekky as he calls it, which never fails to make me laugh.
Not that he told me his whole life story just now, but hey, it’s something. The problem is it’s whetted my appetite. I’m hungry for more.
Sadly, more talking is not in the cards for this cab ride. Jack leans closer, and suddenly there’s another drunk man using my shoulder as a pillow.
“Wake me when we get there?” he mumbles.
“Sure,” I say, ignoring the quickening of my pulse.
The feel of him draped on me, warm and muscular, is downright butterfly inducing.
Lee would not approve.
17
THE LEAVES ARE CHANGING IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. A CRISP breeze blows orange, yellow, and red across the sidewalks and into floating plumes turned up by the wake of morning rush-hour traffic. It’s late October. All of London is drenched in black coats and puffer jackets on my walk to campus.
“What was that?” my dad demands on the phone. “Is someone honking at you?”
“No. It’s just normal traffic noises, weirdo. I’m walking to class.”
I sip my coffee (I’ve still not learned to appreciate tea) and dodge TV camera crews that are about to go live from outside an iron fence in the ongoing saga of the royal philanderer. Apparently, Prince James remains staunch in his refusal to own up to his affairs, despite two swimsuit models recently coming forward with claims they had a threesome with the prince at a drunken yacht party in Monte Carlo.
“Anyway. What’s up?” I ask Dad.
It’s a rhetorical question. Same thing that’s always up.
“I haven’t heard from you in a while.” His disappointed voice has grown more insistent and accusatory over the last month or so.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m eyeballs-deep in solving this mystery of the portrait. I spend all day in class, then the library, then homework. The time difference makes things a real bitch.”
“Abbey.”
He can’t see me roll my eyes, but I’m sure he senses it. “Sorry.”
“I told you, you can call any time.”
“You say that, but you’re going to be cranky if I wake you up at three a.m.”
“The alternative makes me crankier,” he argues. “In other words, I’d like to hear from my kid more than once or twice a month.”
“I’m not that bad,” I argue back. “Besides, we both know you’d like to hear from me more than once or twice a day.”
“It’s a father’s prerogative.”
“Yeah, nice try. It’s a daughter’s prerogative to have a life. Quote me on that and tell it to Dr. Wu at your next session.”
“Cut your old man some slack,” he says with that guilt trip tone that is way too effective. “I miss you, baby girl. This house is empty without you around.”
“I wish I could come home for Thanksgiving, but I have a test that week. There’s no way I can miss it.”
“I know. It’s fine.”
The unhappiness in his voice gnaws at me. This is hard on him. More so than he anticipated maybe. I should probably be more sensitive to that.
“How about this?” I suggest. “We’ll FaceTime for Thanksgiving dinner. I’ll do a turkey and everything.”
“That’d be real nice. I’d like that.”
“It’s a plan then.”
We say goodbye as I reach campus and hustle to my first class. Amelia is already there when I take my usual seat. She can’t wait to tell me about the newspaper article she found describing the unusual brutality of one of her research subjects.
“Fifty-seven lashes with a poisoned blade,” she reads from the article she’s managed to translate with her rough understanding of French and a language app. “Have you ever heard of anything so outrageous?”
“I’m impressed,” I admit. “My arm would have gotten tired after thirty lashes, tops.”
“I’m obsessed.”
Amelia is in full-on homicidal girl crush territory. And I’m happy for her, I guess?
Today we’re updating our professor on the progress of our research projects. In my case, I’m forced to report I’ve stalled on Josephine. But I can’t dock myself a point for effort—I’ve exhausted myself on library research and endless internet searches through academic catalogs, running to ground every loose lead or obscure reference.