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)
“I was discussing that at lunchtime with Caroline and Maryanne. We thought after Easter.”
“How’s Caroline?”
I shift in my seat. “Grieving.” I shrug, giving Tom a level gaze.
Tom regards me, eyes narrowed, his interest piqued. “Something you not telling us?”
Shit.
Following The Incident, not only is Tom belligerent but he’s become irritatingly insightful. “Come on, Trevelyan, you’re not playing with a straight bat. What is it?”
“No. Nothing you need to know. How’s Henrietta?”
“Henry? She’s great, thanks, but she keeps dropping bloody almighty hints that I need to buck up and pop the fucking question,” Tom replies with a doleful look.
Joe and I both grin. “You’re a doomed man, bro,” Joe says, and claps him on the back.
Of the three of us, Tom is the only one in a long-term relationship. Henrietta is a saint. She nursed Tom through the trauma of his injuries, and she puts up with all of his bullshit, his PTSD, his temper. He could do a lot worse.
Both Joe and I like to play the field. Well, I used to. Unbidden, a vision of the raven-haired Alessia Demachi comes to my mind.
When did I last have sex?
I frown because I can’t remember. Shit.
“And Maryanne?” Joe asks, distracting me.
“She’s okay. Grieving, too.”
“Does she need comforting?”
Comforting like I comforted Caroline?
“Mate!” I scoff in warning.
House rules. Sisters are off-limits. I shake my head. Joseph still has a not-so-soft spot for my sister. She could do a lot worse, he’s a good guy, but I decide to burst his bubble. “She met some bloke while she was skiing in Whistler. He lives in Seattle. He’s a clinical psychologist or something. She plans to see him soon, I think.”
Joe gives me a quizzical look. “Really?” He rubs his rakish goatee, his eyes full of speculation. “Well, if he makes it over here, we’ll have to see if this geezer measures up.”
“He may be coming over next month. She’s pretty excited about it.”
“You know, now that you’re the earl, you’ll need to provide an heir and a spare,” Tom says.
“Yeah, yeah. Time enough for that yet.”
That’s what I’ve always been. The Spare…Kit’s nickname for me.
It turns out the title and lands needed the spare.
“Yeah. There’s no way you’re ready to settle down, mate. You’re as much of a serial shagger as I am. And I need a wingman,” Joe says with a broad grin.
“Come on, Trevelyan, you’ve shagged your way through most of London,” Tom taunts, and I don’t know if he’s disgusted or impressed.
“Fuck off, Tom,” I say, and we all laugh.
The pub’s landlady rings the bell above the bar. “Time, gentlemen, please,” she calls.
“Back to mine?” I ask. Both Tom and Joe agree, and the three of us sink our pints. “You okay to walk back?” I ask Tom.
“Fuck off. I got myself here, didn’t I?”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I’m running a fucking 5K in April, you wanker.”
I hold my hands up in surrender. I keep forgetting that physically he’s mended….
* * *
It is clear and sunny but bitterly cold, a day where her breath precedes her in a cloud of vapor as she hurries along Chelsea Embankment. There are still large patches of snow welded in icy clumps to the sidewalks, but the roads have been sanded. Traffic has returned to normal, and London is up and running again. Alessia’s train was delayed this morning, and now she’s a little late. But she would have happily walked from Brentford just to see him.
Alessia grins. She is finally at the front door to the Mister’s apartment, her favorite place in the world. She slips her key in the lock and braces herself for the sound of the alarm but is relieved at the silence. Closing the door, she’s surprised by the smell. The apartment reeks of stale alcohol.
Crinkling her nose at the unexpected odor, she removes her boots and pads barefoot into the kitchen. The worktops are littered with empty bottles of beer and greasy pizza boxes.
She jumps when she sees an athletic, attractive young man standing at the open fridge drinking orange juice directly from the carton. His skin is dark, he has long, knotted hair, and he’s dressed only in his boxer shorts. Alessia gapes at him. He turns toward her, and his face erupts in a broad grin of perfect white teeth.
“Well, hi there,” he says, his dark eyes widening in appreciation.
Alessia blushes and mumbles, “Hi,” then scurries into the laundry room.
Who is this man?
She scrambles out of her coat, and from her plastic bag slips on her cleaning uniform: housecoat and headscarf. Lastly she slides her feet into her sneakers.
Alessia peeks around the laundry room door into the kitchen. The Mister, wearing a black T-shirt and his ripped jeans, is standing beside the fridge sharing the carton of orange juice with the stranger.
“I just frightened your barefoot help. You tapped that yet? She’s hot.”