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)
“Oh?”
Danny again? Who is she? Why won’t he talk about her?
Leaning down, he kisses Alessia. “More champagne?”
“No thank you. I will get dressed.”
* * *
Oh. From her tone I think she wants me to leave her alone while she dresses. “You okay?” I ask. Her small smile and nod confirm that she’s fine. “Good,” I mumble, and return to the bathroom to collect our glasses and the Laurent-Perrier.
The sun has finally disappeared, shrouding the horizon in darkness. Downstairs in the kitchen, I switch on the lights and put the champagne in the fridge while I consider Alessia Demachi.
Man, she’s unexpected.
She seems happier and more relaxed, but I’m not sure if it was the foot massage, the bath, the champagne, or the sex. Watching her response in the bath had been a carnal treat. When she closed her eyes and moaned as I massaged her feet, she was breathtaking, her sexuality innate.
The possibilities…
For fuck’s sake.
I shake my head at my lascivious thoughts.
I was determined to leave her alone.
Determined.
But when I finally surrendered to my grief, she distracted and comforted me. And I succumbed…to a woman wearing SpongeBob pajamas and an old Arsenal FC shirt. I can scarcely believe it.
I wonder what Kit would have made of Alessia.
You’re not fucking the staff, are you, Spare?
No. Kit probably would not have approved of what I’ve done, though he would have liked Alessia. He always had an eye for a pretty girl.
“This house is so warm,” Alessia says, interrupting my thoughts. She stands in front of the kitchen counter wearing those pajama bottoms and the white top.
“Too warm?” I ask.
“No.”
“Good. More fizz?”
“Fizz?”
“Champagne?”
“Yes. Please.”
I retrieve the bottle from the fridge and charge our glasses once more.
“What would you like to do?” I ask once she’s taken a sip. I know what I want to do, but given she’s sore, it’s probably not a good idea.
Maybe later tonight.
Taking her glass, Alessia sits down on one of the sofas in the reading area and eyes the chess set on the coffee table. The entry phone buzzes.
“That will be Danny,” I say, and release the latch at the entry phone.
Alessia leaps up from the sofa.
“It’s okay. There’s nothing to worry about,” I reassure her.
Through the glass wall, I watch Danny take hesitant steps down the steep, illuminated stone stairway carrying a white plastic crate. It looks heavy.
I open the door and trot out in my bare feet to meet her halfway up the steps.
Fuck. The ground’s freezing.
“Danny. Let me take that.”
“I’ve got it. Maxim, you’ll catch your death of cold out here,” she scolds, her expression disapproving. “I mean, my lord,” she adds as an afterthought.
“Danny. Give me the crate.” I’m not taking no for an answer.
Pursing her lips, she hands it to me, and I grin at her. “Thank you for this.”
“I’ll come and put it on for you.”
“It’s fine. I’m sure I can work it out.”
“It would be much easier if you were up at the house, sir.”
“I know. I’m sorry. And thank Jessie for me.”
“It’s your favorite. Oh, and Jessie put a spud jack in the crate for the potatoes. They’ve already been in the microwave, so they shouldn’t take long to crisp up. Now, get inside with you. You’re not wearing shoes.” She scowls while shooing me into the house. And because it’s freezing, I do as I’m told. Through the full-height windows, she spies Alessia on the sofa and gives her a wave, which Alessia returns.
“Thank you,” I call from the shelter of the doorway with its cozy underfloor heating. I don’t introduce her to Alessia. I know it’s rude. But I really want to remain in our bubble for a little longer. Introductions can happen later.
Danny shakes her head, her white hair ruffled by the chilly wind, and turns to go back up the steps. I watch her ascend. She hasn’t changed in all the years I’ve known her. This woman has tended my grazed knees, bandaged my cuts and scrapes, and iced my bruises since I was old enough to walk—always in her plaid skirt and stout shoes, never in trousers. No. I smile; it’s Jessie, her partner for twelve years, who wears the trousers in that relationship. Briefly I wonder if they’re ever going to marry. It’s been legal for long enough. They have no excuse.
“Who is that?” Alessia asks, and peeks into the crate.
“That’s Danny. I told you, she lives near here, and she’s brought our supper.” I retrieve the casserole dish from inside the crate. There are four large potatoes, and my mouth waters when I spot the banoffee pie.
Man, Jessie can cook.
“The stew needs heating, and we can have it with baked potatoes. Sound okay?”
“Yes. It is very okay.”
“Very okay?”
“Yes.” She blinks. “My English?”
“Is great,” I answer, and, grinning, I brandish the spiked potato baker from the crate.