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)
Is it me or is it men in general?
It’s a troubling thought. Maybe I’m the one who’s uncomfortable. After all, she chased me out of the flat last week and the idea that I fled to avoid her is disconcerting. I resolve not to let it happen again.
The fact is, she’s inspired me. The whole weekend I’ve immersed myself in my music. It’s provided a distraction from all my newfound and unwanted responsibility and a respite from my grief—or maybe I’ve found a way to channel my grief…I don’t know. I have three pieces completed, sketchy ideas for two more, and I’m tempted to put lyrics to one of them. I’ve ignored my phone, my e-mail—everyone, and for once in my life I’ve found solace in my own company. It’s been a revelation. Who knew I could be so productive? What I don’t understand is why she’s affected me like this when we’ve only exchanged a few words. It doesn’t make sense to me, but I don’t want to overthink it.
I pick up my phone from the bedside table and look down at the bed. The bedding is in complete disarray.
Bloody hell, I’m a slob.
Hastily, I make the bed. From the pile of clothes discarded on my sofa, I grab a black-hooded sweatshirt and slip it on over my T-shirt. It’s chilly. With wet feet she’s probably cold, too. In the hallway I stop and turn the thermostat up by a few degrees. I don’t like the idea of her feeling the cold.
She comes out of the kitchen carrying an empty laundry basket and a plastic caddy full of cleaning fluids and cloths. Head down, she walks right past me toward my bedroom. I regard her retreating figure in the shapeless housecoat: long pale legs, a gentle sway of slim hips…are those bright pink underpants I can see through the nylon? From beneath the headscarf a rich brunette plait snakes down her back to just above the line of her pink underwear, and it swings from side to side as she walks. I know I should look away, but I’m distracted by her underwear. They cover her backside and come up to her waist. They are possibly the largest knickers I’ve seen on a woman. And my body stirs like I’m a thirteen-year-old boy.
Fuck! I groan inwardly, feeling like a pervert, and resist the urge to follow her. Instead I head into the drawing room, where I sit down at my computer to work through my e-mails from Oliver and ignore my lust and my daily, Alessia Demachi.
* * *
Alessia is surprised to find that his bed has been made. Every time she’s been to his apartment, this room has always been a mess. There is still a pile of clothes on the sofa, but it looks tidier than she’s ever seen it. She opens the curtains fully and stares out at the river. “Thames.” She whispers the word aloud, her voice wavering a little.
It’s dark and gray like the naked trees on the opposite bank…not like the Drin. Not like home. Here it’s urban and crowded, so crowded. Back at home she was surrounded by fertile countryside and snowcapped mountains. She sweeps away the painful thought of home. She is here to do a job—a job she wants because it comes with the added bonus of the piano. She wonders if he’s going to be here all day, and the thought that he might bothers her. His presence will keep her from playing her favorite pieces.
But on the plus side, she gets to see him.
The man who’s been dominating her dreams.
She has to stop thinking about him. Now. With a heavy heart, she begins to hang some of the scattered clothes in his walk-in closet. Those that she thinks need washing she places in the laundry basket.
* * *
The aroma of evergreen and sandalwood lingers in his bathroom. It’s a pleasant, masculine scent. She takes a moment to inhale deeply and savor it like she did before. His striking eyes come to mind…and his broad shoulders…and flat belly. She sprays the bathroom mirror with Windolene and rubs energetically.
Stop! Stop! Stop!
He’s her employer, and he would never be interested in her. After all, she’s just his cleaner.
Her last job in his bedroom is to empty the trash. To her disbelief she finds the basket empty. There are no used condoms. She places it back beside his nightstand, and for some inexplicable reason the empty basket makes her smile.
Gathering up the laundry and her cleaning materials, she gazes for a moment at the two monochrome photographs on the wall. Both are nudes. In one a woman is kneeling, her skin pale and translucent. The soles of her feet, her behind, and the graceful curve of her back are all visible, and she holds her blond hair piled up on her head; a few stray tresses kiss her neck. The model, from this angle anyway, is beautiful. The second photograph is a close-up and shows the contour of a woman’s neck, her hair swept aside, and the arch of her spine from the first few vertebrae down to her backside. Her ebony skin is luminous, caressed by the light. She’s stunning. Alessia sighs. Judging by these photographs, he must like women, and she wonders if he is the photographer. Maybe one day he might take her photograph. She shakes her head at her fanciful thoughts and returns to the kitchen to tackle the chaos of take-away boxes, empty beer bottles, and washing-up.