Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
NO BACKPACKS. NO SHOPPING BAGS.
“We’ve had a lot of theft lately.”
My attention shifts back. “In a charity shop?”
“Times are tough,” she says with a shrug. “Also, people are bastards.”
“Well, I just have my purse.”
“Wait.” Oliver reaches to his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and peels out a fifty-pound note. “Consider it insurance,” he says, putting it on the counter. He turns his dark look my way. “Let’s get this over with.”
“That was generous of you,” I say as he wanders ahead.
“What do you suppose her title is?” He throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Door dragon? Member number one of the unwelcoming party?”
“Be nice. This is a charity shop.”
“My charity extends to that fifty and to ten minutes. That’s how long you have to torture me.”
“Sounds kinky.”
“If I get flea bites—”
“Such a snob!” I say as we approach the staircase down. “Bo’s fleas seem to know better, so I’m sure you’ll be fine. Your blood is probably too bitter for flea tastes.”
“But not for yours,” he says slinging his arm around my waist, hauling me against him. “Do you think your sweetness and light balance me out?”
“Of course. Aren’t you glad you found me?”
“Oh, I count my lucky stars daily,” he whispers, making me shiver when he presses a kiss behind my ear. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Stop! This will be fun, and no different to an hour spent wandering around Harrods or Harvey Nicks.”
“I don’t shop. I have people who do that for me.”
“Well, you’re shopping today, crabby ass, like it or not. You’re so stuck up.”
“Refusing to rake through other people’s castoffs in a place that smells like mothballs and old socks does not make me stuck up.”
“Shut up,” I snipe, grabbing a random item from the nearest rail. I thrust it at him. “Go and try that on.”
“On?” His brow spikes, then he glances at what turns out to be a gray T-shirt. It’s going to be too small, I can see, but it serves him right.
“Yes. Take off posh threads, and put on T-shirt.” Asshole, I add in my head.
“And this is what you want me to wear to an exclusive charity gala?”
“Wouldn’t that be perfect? Double-dipping in the charity stakes. Triple, if we count the fifty. Think of all the angels in heaven right now, smiling down at you.”
“A. Charity. Gala. Ball.” He annoyingly enunciates each word.
“Try. The. Frickin’. T-shirt. On.”
“This is like a bad dream.”
“Go, drama queen.” I point in the direction of the dressing rooms.
He doesn’t say fucker, but his expression does before he saunters in the direction of my outstretched finger.
I don’t particularly want to see him in a boring old T-shirt, but it beats having him follow me around, complaining. Grabbing this opportunity, I flick through the racks of shirts and sweaters, pausing to consider an ugly Christmas jumper for a moment but ultimately putting it back. I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when I see it. I turn from the rack when I see something hanging from the end of an aisle.
“Oh, my gosh! These are perfect!” All this moment is missing is a beam of heavenly light and a celestial choir! And just the right size. At a squeeze.
I’m almost giddy as I make my way to the men’s dressing rooms.
“Are you in here?” I whisper, not wanting to trespass into that (slightly feet funky) no-woman’s-land.
“Against my better judgment,” comes a familiar voice from a cubicle at the far end.
“Glad you didn’t run away.”
“I did think about it but decided you weren’t winning this one.”
Oh, but I am, I think, hooking the hanger of my prize over the door next to his. “Knock, knock! Are you decent?”
“I’ll never understand why people say knock, knock when they can just . . . knock.” The door opens wide to Oliver’s unimpressed face. “As for decent? That depends entirely on your definition.”
I don’t answer or make a peep, mainly because I have both hands pasted over my mouth. Who would’ve thought a gray T-shirt could be so funny!
“What’s the verdict?”
I am loving what I’m seeing. I don’t know why, but I thought he’d still be cranky and maybe put it on over his shirt or something. But not so. His shirt and jacket are hanging from the peg in the wall, the T-shirt on his actual person.
This is such a beautiful moment.
“Is it bring-your-twink-to-the-office day?” I burst out, unable to stop my laughter. It could be the combination of those pants and those highly polished shoes that brings the thought to mind. I press my hands to my stomach. The icing on the cake of this outfit is the T-shirt, which is a mite too small. It doesn’t so much hug the bulk of his biceps as expose them, while revealing more than a sliver of skin at his waist. There’s also a cherry on top of the icing in the form of a chest pocket with a cartoon Japanese-style lucky cat peeking from the top. “You look so . . . kawaī.”