Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“This I know.” She smiles. “When I traveled on the train in London, there were so many different languages spoken.”
“Do you like it? London?”
“It is noisy and crowded and very expensive. But it is exciting. I had never been to a big city before.”
“Not even Tirana?” Thanks to my expensive education, I know the capital of Albania.
“No. I have never traveled. I had never seen the sea until you brought me here.” Her glance out the window is wistful, but it gives me an opportunity to study her profile: long lashes, pert nose, pouting lips. I shift in my seat, my blood thickening.
Steady.
Megan appears with her pinched, angry face and scraped-back hair, and my problem subsides.
Boy, she is still bitter. It was one summer seven years ago. One fucking summer.
“Are you ready to order?” she asks, glaring at me. “Catch of the day is cod.” She makes it sound like an insult.
Alessia frowns and glances quickly at the menu.
“I’ll have the fish pie, please.” And, irritated, I cock my head, daring Megan to say anything.
“For me also,” says Alessia.
“Two fish pies. Any wine?”
“I’m fine with the beer. Alessia?”
Megan turns to the lovely Alessia Demachi. “For you?” she snaps.
“The beer is good for me, too.”
“Thank you, Megan,” I grunt in warning, and she shoots me a look.
She’ll probably spit in my food—or, worse, in Alessia’s.
“Shit,” I murmur under my breath as I watch her march back to the kitchen.
Alessia studies my reaction.
“That goes back several years,” I say, and tug at my sweater collar, embarrassed.
“What does?”
“Megan and I.”
“Oh,” Alessia says, her tone flat.
“She’s ancient history. Tell me about your family. Do you have any siblings?” I ask, desperately trying to move on.
“No,” she says abruptly, and it’s obvious she’s still considering Megan and me.
“Parents?”
“I have a mother and a father. Like all people.” She raises a beautiful, arched eyebrow.
Oh. The delectable Demachi has teeth.
“And what are they like?” I ask, stifling my amusement.
“My mother is…brave.” Her voice becomes soft and wistful.
“Brave?”
“Yes.” Her expression turns somber, and she glances out the window once more.
Okay. This subject is definitely off-limits.
“And your father?”
She shakes her head and shrugs. “He is an Albanian man.”
“And that means?”
“Well, my father is old-fashioned, and I do not…how do you say? We do not see eye for eye.” Her face falls a little, and her troubled expression tells me this, too, is off-limits.
“Eye to eye,” I correct her. “Tell me about Albania, then.”
Her face brightens. “What do you want to know?” She looks up at me through those long dark lashes, and my groin tightens again.
“Everything,” I whisper.
I watch and listen to her, enthralled. She is passionate and eloquent, painting a vivid picture of her country and her home. She tells me Albania is a special place where family is at the center of everything. It’s an ancient country, influenced over the centuries by several cultures with differing ideologies. She explains that it’s both Western and Eastern-facing, but more and more her country looks to Europe for inspiration. She’s proud of her hometown. Kukës is a small place in the north near the border with Kosovo, and she enthuses about its spectacular lakes, rivers, and gorges, but most of all the mountains that surround it. She comes alive talking about the landscape, and it’s clear this is what she misses about her homeland.
“And that is why I like it here,” she says. “From what I have seen, the landscape in Cornwall is also beautiful.”
We are interrupted by Megan and fish pie. Megan plunks the plates down on the table and leaves without a word. Her face is sour, but the fish pie is warming and delicious, and there’s no sign that anyone spat in it.
“What does your father do?” I ask cautiously.
“He has a garage.”
“Does he sell petrol?”
“No. He fixes cars. Tires. Mechanical things.”
“And your mother?”
“She is at home.”
I want to ask Alessia why she left Albania, but I know it will remind her of her harrowing journey to the UK.
“And what did you do in Kukës?”
“Well, I was studying, but my university closed, and so sometimes I work in a school with the little children. And sometimes I play the piano….” Her voice tails off, and I don’t know if it’s because she’s feeling nostalgic or if it’s for another reason. “Tell me about your work.” It’s clear she wants to change the subject, and because I don’t want to tell her what I do yet, I fill her in on my DJing career.
“And I’ve done a couple of summers in San Antonio in Ibiza. Now, that’s a real party place.”
“This is why you have so many records?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“And what is your favorite music?”
“All music. I don’t have a favorite genre. What about you? How old were you when you started playing?”
“I was four.”
Wow. Early.