Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
“I’m not even going to ask what that means.”
“It’s much too nice to be cooped up in the office,” she says, hooking out his elbow. “Shall we?”
I feed my hand through the loop he’s made. It’s a little different, but I can roll with it. “Why not?”
“Have you walked through here yet?” he asks as we stroll.
“No, but I’ve looked out your living room window and thought about it.”
“You won’t have seen Speaker’s Corner,” he says as we pass through a nondescript path flanked by railings. Black cabs, buses, and all kinds of commuters whiz by on the other side.
“Can’t hear any speaking.” Not over the traffic noise. “Is it supposed to be some kind of phenomenon?” I glance up at the treetops, wondering if it’s something to do with the wind. Maybe on days where people aren’t rushing to work?
“No.” He chuckles, amused, as though it isn’t odd enough that a corner of a London park is named for speakers. “It’s a spot you often find people saying stuff they feel others need to hear. Sometimes it’s controversial and there’s a bit of a debate. Sometimes they just get heckled.”
“No,” I full of false disbelief answer. “Here in London? People wouldn’t be so rude.”
“I know, right? But it can be mayhem along here some Sunday mornings, especially if the weather is like this.” He tilts his head, the sun’s rays catching his cheekbones and making a golden living god out of him for a beat.
“Looks like Wednesdays at eight in the morning is a good time to get a slot.”
“Yeah. Have you got anything you want to say?” he asks, slanting his gaze my way.
I love you. I think I’ve always loved you. I think I will always love you.
I paint on a bland expression and give my head a quick shake. “Can’t think of anything. How about you?”
“Morning.” It takes a split second to process he’s not speaking to me as he inclines his head, and a passerby returns his greeting.
“What’s with the stepladder?” I whisper once she’s passed by and is no longer in earshot.
“Her version of a soapbox would be my guess. Want to stay and listen to what she has to say?”
“No thanks. I get enough of being lectured in Florida.”
His expression falters, my home state a sudden, stark reminder between us.
“Why here?” I babble. “Debates in a park seem a little odd. Wouldn’t they be more at home, say, in a pub?”
His shoes scuff against the path, our footsteps slowing before he turns to face the way we came. “Over there, just outside of the park, but there’s a spot marked with a plaque that shows where the Tyburn hanging tree stood.”
“I’m guessing that wasn’t a garden.”
“It wasn’t even a tree, I don’t think. For centuries, that spot was used for public executions. Criminals, heretics, that sort of thing. I suppose Speaker’s Corner sprang out of that. Spectators probably made a day of it. Pack a bag with a bottle of beer, add a couple of pies, then head off to watch some criminals swing. Maybe later, pop over here to listen to the dissenters of the realm.”
“I think I’ll stick to Netflix.”
“And I’ll provide the chill,” he says in that velvety tone of his.
“There is zero chill in you.” I tighten my grip on his arm, trying to absorb the sense of him. The man he is. “You’re more like the frenetic frenzy of f—”
He’s a frenetic frenzy of the f-word. And I’m a frenetic frenzy of feelings.
“Nearly,” he says with a gleam. “Frenetic, eh?” His gaze slices my way. “We can try tantric, if you want. In fact, we can try whatever you want.”
“Are you trying to make my heart stop?” It seems the universe does not like this invocation, throwing up pebbles in my way, making me stumble.
“Are you trying to make mine stop?” he says, catching me before I face-plant. “I should’ve thought about those.” He glowers down at my heels as though they just cursed his lineage.
“And spoil the surprise?” Of a walk around the park, which is way better than work.
“Exactly.” Instead of straightening, Whit sweeps me up off my feet, bridal style.
“Hey, no! Whit, put me down!” I demand as my purse flops against my hip.
“I will, just not yet. Morning.” He greets another passerby with a wide grin. A dog walker, I notice as they pass by.
“Good morning,” I add in a much smaller voice, then whack Whit again with a demand he put me down before I flash the world my knickers. He does put me down, but not for a while when we walk hand in hand toward a…
“A lake?”
“Yeah.” His expression turns almost bashful. “It seems stupid now that we’re here, but I thought you said you wanted to do touristy stuff. I was out for a run, and I saw the boats, and I sort of convinced myself you’d like to go out on one.”