The Mister Read online E.L. James

Categories Genre: Chick Lit, Contemporary, Erotic, Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
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Bloody hell!

In a rare rush of excitement, I stop, fish my phone out of my pocket, and find the voice-memo app. Hitting the RECORD button, I begin again. The notes ring out through the room. Evocative. Melancholic. Stirring me. Inspiring me.

I am cleaner, Mister.

Yes. I speak English. My name is Alessia Demachi.

Alessia.

When I look at my watch, it’s after midnight. Stretching my arms above my head, I examine the manuscript in front of me. It’s complete. I’ve written a whole piece, and I am overwhelmed with a sense of achievement. How long have I been trying to do this? And all it took was meeting my new daily. I shake my head, and for once I go to bed early and alone.

Chapter Five

It’s with trepidation that Alessia unlocks the door to the apartment with the piano. Her heart sinks when she’s met with the unnerving silence of the alarm. The hush means that the confusing, green-eyed Mister is in residence. He has invaded her dreams ever since she’d seen him sprawled naked on his bed. But during her weekend, in quiet moments, all she’d been able to think about was him. She doesn’t understand why, though perhaps it’s the brief, penetrating stare he gave her when he towered over her in the hallway or because he’s handsome and tall and lean, with dimples on his back, above his muscled, athletic behind—

Stop!

Her wayward thoughts are out of control.

Quietly, she slips off her wet boots and socks, then scampers in her bare feet down the hallway through the kitchen. The counter is littered with beer bottles and takeaway boxes, but Alessia scuttles into the safety of the laundry room. She props her boots on the radiator along with her socks in the hope they might dry out before she leaves.

Peeling off her wet hat and gloves, she hangs them on the hook beside the boiler, then removes the anorak that Magda gave her. She places it on the same hook and frowns as water drips onto the tiled floor. Her jeans are soaked from the torrential rain, too. She shivers as she removes them and struggles into her housecoat, grateful that the plastic bag has kept it dry. The hem falls to below her knees, so that she’s not immodest without her jeans. Peeking into the kitchen, she checks that he’s not there. He’s probably still asleep, so she pops her sodden jeans into the dryer and switches it on. At least they’ll be dry when she goes home. Her feet are red and itch with cold, so she grabs a dry towel from the pile of clean laundry and rubs them both vigorously, massaging life back into her toes. Once they’re warm, she slips on her sneakers.

“Alessia?”

Zot!

The Mister is awake! What does he want?

As quickly as her chilled fingers will let her, she pulls her scarf from the plastic bag and ties it around her head, conscious that her braided hair is also wet. Taking a deep breath, she exits the laundry room to find him standing in the kitchen. She wraps her arms around herself, trying to find some warmth.

“Hi,” he says, and smiles.

Alessia glances at him. His smile is dazzling, lighting up his handsome face and his emerald eyes. She looks away, blinded by his good looks and embarrassed by her creeping blush.

But she feels a little warmer.

He had been so cross the last time she saw him—what has brought about this change of heart?

“Alessia?” he says again.

“Yes, Mister,” she answers, keeping her eyes lowered. At least he is dressed this time.

“I just wanted to say hi.”

She peeks up at him but doesn’t understand what he wants. His smile isn’t as broad this time, and his brow is furrowed.

“Hi,” she says, uncertain what’s expected of her.

He nods and shuffles from one foot to the other, hesitant. She thinks he might say something further, but he turns and leaves the kitchen.

* * *

What an idiot I am! I mimic “Hi” to myself in ridicule. I’ve thought of nothing but this girl all weekend, and the best I can come up with is, “I just wanted to say hi?”

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I wander back to my bedroom and notice a trail of wet footprints on the hallway floor.

Did she walk barefoot in the rain? Surely not!

My room is gloomy, and the view across the Thames is drab and uninspiring. The rain is lashing down outside. It had been pelting against the window early this morning and the noise had woken me. Shit. She must have walked through this atrocious weather. Again I wonder where she lives and how far she has to come. I had hoped to engage her in some conversation this morning to find out these details, but I can tell I make her uncomfortable.


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