Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 143633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 718(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 479(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 143633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 718(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 479(@300wpm)
Fuck dropping my eyes, because I couldn’t – the pull from his was just too strong. I looked right into his stare, hating how the tears sprang up before I could stop them. They’d be obvious, even behind my glasses under shitty lights.
“No,” I admitted. “There isn’t. Nowhere else I want to be.”
He looked up and down the corridor, face tormented like he was battling some inner demons.
I sure didn’t push him, just sat there, resigned to being there all night long.
I expected a goodbye when he got to his feet, but there wasn’t one. He gestured upstairs, instead. “You need to stay safe,” he said. “So, you’d best come along with me.”
Chapter Six
Rosie
I was up from my numb ass before he could rethink his offer. My legs were stiff from how long I’d been sitting there with my back to my door.
I needed him. Just like last time.
The man upstairs didn’t speak as he led the way up. He used one single key with no keyring to let us in, stepping aside to let me pass him. He scrabbled to clear the coffee table, rushing into the kitchen with three empty mugs and a couple of shot glasses. I followed him, hating his obvious embarrassment.
I had plenty enough embarrassment of my own. If only he knew how many book heroes I’d imagined him as…
“Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
His kitchen was practically barren, like the rest of his place. His fridge was buzzing loudly, and his microwave looked about twenty years old, and there was no sign of a dishwasher, just an old sink with a dripping tap. He put the mugs in there and rinsed them clean while I leant against his big, white washing machine.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked. “Tea? Coffee? Sorry, I don’t have much else.”
“Tea, please.”
“Milk? Sugar?”
“Both, please. Two sugars.”
I noticed the way he deliberately blocked the cupboard from view with his frame, grabbing two teabags and dropping them in a pair of mugs before he put the kettle on to boil. Each of the mugs were different, including the ones in the sink, just like ours were. A jumble that didn’t match.
I glanced in his fridge as he took the milk out. There was just one solitary stack of ready meals on one shelf. He sniffed the milk before he poured it, making sure it hadn’t gone off. Not that I’d have cared, to be honest. The very fact I was off the cold corridor floor and in someone’s place was a welcome relief. He could have had nothing but sour milk and I’d have still preferred it to holing up with Trisha.
He handed me my tea.
“My apologies again. It’s a terrible brand.”
He wasn’t lying. It was even weaker than the crap we used downstairs.
He was still in his suit, tie hanging loose, and his shirt hanging loose along with it. His hair was ruffled, and he had rough stubble, but he still looked gorgeous, gaunt or not. In my eardrums he’d been billionaires, dirty therapists, and hot older professors. Hell, he’d even been a lumberjack, but I couldn’t imagine that so well.
I leant back against the washing machine, letting the situation sink in. I was in the kitchen of the man upstairs, and Scott was dancing around the living room with my lovestruck mum like I didn’t exist. The depression finally reared its head in me, facing the truth about my sad, lonely existence. Would anyone really have noticed if I’d have wandered off into nowhere this evening? Would anyone have cared if the guys from block seven had been out there, threatening to pin me to the wall and use me however they wanted? They were known for spouting that kind of rancid crap at people who passed them.
The only one who seemed to care I was out in the hallway was Julian. Just as he’d been the only one to answer my screams for help.
I looked over at him, grateful. Lumberjack or not, he was my saviour. Again.
“I really appreciate the invite,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Steady on.” He laughed a sarcastic laugh. “It’s hardly a five-star hotel. You haven’t seen the state of my bedroom yet.”
The thought gave me one hell of a lurch in my stomach. It sounded as though I’d be staying in his bed. He didn’t need to give me prime position. I’d happily make do on the sofa. I had no expectation of romance novels coming to life, or turfing him out of his own bedroom.
“I’ll gladly take the sofa,” I told him. “Don’t worry.”
He looked puzzled, still holding his tea.
“Oh, no. No, don’t you worry. I won’t be staying in my bedroom with you! No need to be alarmed!”
We’d both got our wires crossed.
“No,” I said. “I mean, if you want your bed, I can take your sofa. I’ve been a sofa surfer plenty of times before.”