Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Reuben could fuck me in the grotto and slap my ass for being a naughty girl, or he could drag me away and punish me for even daring to cross his path uninvited. He could keep me bound and out of view for a whole weekend straight, like the founders have done before. Hooded and at his mercy.
Or he could tell me to fuck off. Blank me like I’m a nobody, or give me a blasé wave and walk away.
Those thoughts hurt, like pokers in the ribs. The idea of being rejected nearly sends me running for the tube, and I kind of wish it would. I could rebook more sessions with my psychotherapist, and fess up to Josh, and avoid diving headfirst into a muddy pit of my own making.
Still, I can’t do it.
I’m already locked in.
The minutes count down, and my breaths get so shallow, I struggle to breathe, but I need to see Santa – Reuben. I need to see Reuben.
An assistant elf puts the closed barrier across the walkway with a few minutes left to go. I watch on until the last little boy in the queue heads on in with his mum. Five minutes later he’s jumping and clapping as they come out from the exit. The little guy really thinks he’s met Santa, the greatest man in the world, and I’m shuffling in my seat as they pass me, because shit, this is about to get serious.
The teenage photographer heads out first, with his bag slung over his shoulder. Then it’s one of the elf volunteers, a young looking blonde who waves at a man in one of the shop doorways and goes to join him.
Come on.
Another elf comes out – an older one this time – and a woman appears for the bucket of donation cash. Shit. I’m twitching with panic, hyped for the grand finale.
It’s like I’ve been hit by a cannonball, straight in the guts when he steps out from behind the grotto door. He’s still in his red Santa outfit, but there are no pillows stuffed inside his jacket. His hat is off, and so is his fake white beard. He’s the man I’ve stared at for hours online – Reuben Sinclair – and he’s nodding as the woman with the cash bucket talks to him. They smile, and he puts a hand on her shoulder. Friendly.
Fuck my fucking life, I’m actually doing this. I’m stalking Santa.
I’m stalking a multi-millionaire, charity donating, mall owner.
And oh fuck, when he turns in my direction and looks right at me, it’s obvious he knows it.
I wonder if I stand any chance of a last-minute dash for the exit while he finishes up talking to the bucket woman, but I’m stuck to the bench like glue. I hate it. I feel so fucking sick, like I’m in purgatory, my heart dependant on some insane judgement from a man I shouldn’t even know. I’m ready to hurl when he says goodbye to her and walks in my direction. He towers above me when he steps up to the bench.
“What are you doing here, Tiffany?”
I suck in a breath, dragging my character back in place.
“Shopping,” I say, trying to mirror his nonchalance from last night.
“Shopping?” He looks around me. I’ve got nothing but my pissing clutch, I haven’t even bought a takeout coffee. At least he’d had a glass of wine in his hand.
The walls of Creamgirl rise up so quickly I don’t stand a chance of stopping them. Her personality takes over mine like a safety blanket.
“I was just browsing. Nothing I fancied. Thought I’d take a seat. Chill out a bit.”
“You don’t seem very chilled.”
Crap, I’m twisting the rings on my fingers, my knee bouncing at about 120 bpm. Still, I keep my expression intact.
“I doubt I seemed all that chilled when you heard me getting done between the dumpsters last night.”
He looks around us, and I curse myself. There are still customers everywhere. His customers.
I’ve pissed him off, I can see it in the turn of his stare, but I like that. I’m a moth to a flame.
“Cut the bravado, Cream,” he says. “Yes, I could hear you between the dumpsters, and I could also see through the grotto door every time it opened. You’ve been staring over for nearly an hour straight, so I’m asking you again, Tiffany. What are you doing here?”
I have to goldfish it, mute. I recognise his voice more than ever now from being hooded. Bound. At his mercy. His power is so strong, it doesn’t need to be overstated. It’s level calm.
“Call me curious, alright?” I say, my walls cracking. “I came here because I wanted to see you. But you already knew that, Reuben. You’re hardly a dumb fuck.”
He flinches at the sound of his name. I should have called him Santa.