Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
But I am so not in the mood.
“Nope.” I pop the p, my eyes fixed on the huge metal gate ahead. Maybe I can just get to the van, climb in, and drive it away. Escape the memory of the man who hadn’t noticed me, as well as the one following me, then plead temporary insanity when pulled over by the police for motor vehicle theft. At least I’d get to escape the topic of why I’m here because it’s still so difficult for me to explain. Two months and the bitter taste of betrayal still burns the back of my throat. I thought Martine and Ed cared about me. I mean, I know I was their employee, not family, but I truly thought they gave a damn. As it turns out, not so much.
“You still work for Ed, right? You look after his daughters, right?”
“I wasn’t the au pair,” I grate out, yanking on the heavy gate. I’m a teacher. I have a degree in education! I’m not supposed to be offering people tiny bites of food from a stupid tray while they treat me as though I’m invisible.
“Wait up! I know that.”
Angry tears begin to sting my eyes. I’m suddenly grateful for the dark out here, a lone lamppost yards away providing the only illumination. I find I’m not so thankful as I trip over a loose cobblestone, fragments of weeds and gravel spraying up from the toe of my ugly yet sensible shoes.
“Careful.” Strong arms grab me before I hit the ground, but even as he rights me, I’m asking myself why won’t he just go away. “You okay?” He turns me to face him, dipping at the knees until our gazes are level. “What is it? What did I say?”
“I don’t work for Martine and Ed anymore. They’re getting divorced.” One hot, angry tear slips down my face. I dash it away with the back of my hand, irritated that it’s come to this. It’s not even that I’m crying in the back alley behind some rich asshole’s house, or that I’m no longer working in a job with the perks of travel, free time, and some level of respect, or that I spend my evenings now serving horrible people and wiping away crumbs. It’s because of this—crying in front of some stranger who, despite his worried expression, doesn’t give a flying flip about me. I might feel betrayed by Martine, and let’s face it, who wouldn’t, being told to take a couple of nights in a ritzy hotel because “the decorators weren’t finished” only to find later that she’d fucked off back to New York without even letting me say my goodbyes to the girls. But at this moment, I’m also grateful to her for her warning.
Griffin . . . whatever she said his surname was, has no scruples when it comes to getting girls into bed. Watch out for that one, Holly, dear.
“Oh, that’s . . . shitty.” His hands tighten briefly on my arms, accompanied by an expression of concern. “And Martine has taken the girls back to the States.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t want to go with them?”
“She didn’t give me that option,” I retort. I mean, even if she had, I don’t think I’d have gone with them at that point. One of the reasons I’d taken the job was the opportunity for travel, and I wasn’t ready to go back to the States then.
But I might be getting to that point now.
I’m registered at all the right employment agencies, and I’ve had interviews. I just haven’t had any offers. Meanwhile, I’ve rented a room in a house that should probably be condemned. I don’t have another choice because living in London is so darned expensive.
“That’s a bit shit. Still, every cloud has a silver lining, right?” Griffin’s cheerful tone is wasted on me. As is his wicked half-smile. “At least, your pinny is very pretty.” His eyes flick downwards.
“Pinny?”
“This,” he says, flicking the edge of my white frilled apron. But then his eyes meet mine, hawk like. “Ed’s still in Chelsea, right?”
“As far as I know.” As I shrug, Griffin’s hands loosen.
“Good. Right. I might give him a call.”
“Sure.” Even to my own ears, I sound like a sullen teen. “Just don’t expect him to answer.”
“Why would you say that?” he asks, his words razor-sharp. “Taking the divorce hard, is he?”
“I’ve no idea. But the week after you were there for dinner, they had some other lawyer, sorry, barrister, over. I heard Ed say you were the bigger risk.”
“That cheeky bastard!”
“Look, I’ve got to get back to work.” Swinging away, I pull angrily on the door of the van.
“Holly, I’m really sorry they treated you that way.” Stepping next to me, he unhooks the catch on the other door.
“Not as sorry as I am,” I mutter, though I’ll credit him as looking sincere as the van’s interior light illuminates his expression. I shake myself internally because none of this matters. Not anymore.