Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
“A broken-down car, as I recall. Attraction. A flirty glance. A little innuendo.” Or a lot.
She shakes her head with indulgence this time, but she’s thought about it, all right. The way we met. That night. She’s thought about me.
“I meant what you were doing up there that day.”
“I was escaping,” I answer simply and with more truth than I’d usually care for. “My grandfather died the day before, and I guess I needed to get away.” It’s not the whole truth, but it’s all I’m saying.
“I’m so sorry.” And she looks it. Looks like she means it, which is more than I probably deserve and definitely more than he deserves.
“No need.” What I thought was love turned out to be control. What I thought was business acumen turned out to be a rotten soul. He was a man whose solitary intent was that his business, his name, be carried on long after he’d departed the world. He deserves no one’s sorrow and definitely not that of a woman.
“Is that how you were lost?”
Lost. She could say that, for a while at least.
“Were you lost?”
“Answering a question with a question.” She waves the glass in front of me as though she has my number. “There’s no shame in admitting it. Men get lost. I know this for a fact.” Her eyes are meltingly seductive, and I don’t think she even knows. She makes me want to spill all of my thoughts and bare my soul, which would be the wrong thing to do. No need to send her running for the hills. “You can admit it, you know,” she adds a little mischievously.
“I know men get lost.” Men lose their way plenty often. And sometimes, like right now, they get lost in a woman’s gaze. How come I’ve never noticed the thin line of gold that gilds her dark eyes?
“I wasn’t irresponsible enough to set off without a spare tyre, just so you know.” I’m beginning to understand she’s exactly the opposite of irresponsible but find my lips twisting themselves into a teasing quirk anyway. “It’s true! I’d loaned Fred, my little car, to my friend, who then had a puncture but forgot to tell me he hadn’t replaced the spare.”
“And you still call him a friend?” And why do I detest the idea of another man having access to her?
“Well, he’s not the most reliable,” she demurs, twisting a loose thread from a button on her pyjamas.
When she refuses to hold my gaze, I find my gut clenching, a sudden risen thought manifesting itself into actual words. “Is this friend Lulu’s father?”
She sets off laughing like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “Her dad? I think that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard! He is the least reliable person I know, but even as I’m saying this, it strikes me that he’s still more reliable than Lulu’s actual father.”
There’s a lot to dissect in that, not that I have the opportunity as she carries on.
“And of course, you’re wondering about Lu’s dad. Most people do,” she adds with no little chagrin. “Why isn’t he around? What is he to us? But the answer is very simple. He wasn’t interested.”
“Then he’s a fool.” And a fuck head.
“Yep, his loss,” she says with an imperious sniff. “It’s all really a very short story that ended in a breakup that left me feeling very, very bad about myself. Shortly afterwards, I met you on the side of a hill, and I snatched back a little bit of happiness.” She shrugs lightly, her attention sliding away as a tiny frown mars her brow. “Obviously, I didn’t know I was pregnant at the time.”
I imagine her all alone with a swollen belly, and it hits me right in the feels that Lulu could’ve been mine. That I might’ve been that fuck head. That she had no way of finding me.
“Well, you’re raising a great kid,” I find myself saying, pushing away the uncomfortable thoughts.
“Well, I like to think so. And I’m sure you’re now able to say so, content in the position of finding out you’re not responsible for her in any way.”
“If she were mine, I wouldn’t have ignored my responsibility.”
“He didn’t exactly ignore it,” she mutters under her breath before coming back to herself and changing the subject, if not deftly then decidedly. “As for that afternoon, not only was I without a spare because of said friend, but it was his fault I was lost, too. One minute, he needed a lift, and the next, he decided he didn’t need rescuing.”
“You must be a very, very understanding friend.”
“Or an idiot.” She reaches for her wine. “Anyway, I was cursing him to high heavens when you caught me. It was not my finest moment,” she says with a rueful grin.
“It was the highlight of my day.” Highlight of my month. My fucking decade.