Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
I take a much too short warm shower and dry myself quickly. I hesitate for a moment before getting dressed, my fingers lingering over the lace in my lingerie drawer before I finally pull out the white set and put it on. I flush as I check out my reflection in the mirror, Mr. Bingley and Mrs. Hudson both watching from my bed with their heads cocked.
"Shut up, guys," I mutter. "It's not like I'm hoping something's going to happen."
Mrs. Hudson meows loudly and I sigh, leaning down to cuddle her close. I dry my hair and apply a quick layer of gloss to my lips, and a coat of black mascara to my eyes.
I spend a lifetime picking out outfits in front of my mirror, before finally settling on a little black dress. I even use some perfume, spraying my wrists and my neck.
I’m done in the nick of time, and the doorbell goes off not a minute past seven thirty. I let Andrew in with the buzzer and throw some stuff in my handbag before opening the front door.
"Good evening," he greets me with his signature grin, and I allow him to kiss my cheek before stepping inside my apartment. "So, this is your place."
"Welcome." I smile shyly and give him the grand tour.
There's not much to see – it's really just one big room with a separate bedroom and a small bathroom. It's cheap, and I don't need much more, anyway. It serves me just fine. But Andrew's expression falls slightly when he sees the inside of my home, and I try to imagine how it must look from his perspective.
The paint is chipping in some places, the kitchen is old, and the cats have pretty much destroyed my sofa. There are blankets and fluffy pillows everywhere, which I thought looked cozy, but it must look like a mess from a doctor's point of view. Of course, Dr. Martin must have a nice place, but then again, his paycheck is probably four times the amount of mine.
"Oh." His nose twitches when Mr. Bingley strolls into the living area and jumps on the dining table. "You have a cat."
"Two, actually." I scratch under Mr. Bingley's jaw and he purrs loudly. "You're not a cat person, I take it."
"Hardly." He gives me a disappointed look, and I can just imagine him adding 'likes cats' to the list of cons he has for me in his head. "Come on now, Georgina. We don't want to miss our reservation."
I nod, grabbing a light jacket and locking the doors behind us as we leave the apartment. I feel the prickle of eyes on the nape of my neck again as I walk with Andrew down the street. As if somebody's watching me. A quick glance over my shoulder doesn't reveal a thing – the street is empty save for a mom pushing a baby carriage a little behind us. It's just my imagination playing tricks on me.
We drive to the restaurant separately at my request. I don’t want to be stuck with him on the way back if things go south. Andrew seems displeased but he says nothing.
His hand finds its way to the small of my back as we walk up to the building. I shift uncomfortably beneath the weight of his touch, but he doesn't move it, and I feel too nervous to ask him to stop touching me. I remind myself he doesn't mean me any harm, but still breathe out in relief when we arrive at the restaurant and are seated across from each other at the tiny table covered with a checkered tablecloth.
The waiter arrives with the menu, but Andrew brushes him off, ordering for the both of us. I knit my brows together when he does it, not liking how he took the liberty to get me food. What if I had an allergy, or didn't eat certain foods? He never checked with me, and it's hard for me to fight off the feeling of annoyance.
He orders our wine too, red, even though I prefer white, and I sulk through the evening as he goes on about his medical achievements. The food is delicious – not something I would've picked for myself, but still yummy, and it's a small reprieve to the evening. Somehow, we manage to go through the entire bottle of red, and I decide to stop with my third glass. I never drink, and the booze has gone straight to my head, fraying my nerves.
The evening is pleasant enough, but I already know I won't go on a second date with Andrew. There's just no chemistry there, and I don't casually sleep with men, either, so I don't really see a point in us continuing this.
It seems Andrew doesn't feel the same way, though. He keeps reaching for my knee under the table, and I feign ignorance, carefully maneuvering my body so we never touch for longer than a couple of seconds. When the bill arrives, he gallantly offers to pay, though his expectant look only softens when I say I'd like to pay for my share. I don't feel comfortable making him pay for me since I won't go out with him again, and even though it makes me cringe because of the exorbitant price, I count out the bills to cover my half of the dinner and hand them to him.