Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
‘What?’ I ask, peeling my back from the wall and standing firm. ‘What did you have to do, Becker?’
‘I knew I had to let you walk away.’
Walk away? He did the exact opposite. ‘But you didn’t. You gave me the job.’
‘I wanted you.’
‘You had me.’
‘Then I just wanted you more.’
‘And you had me more,’ I remind him, gritting my teeth as I fight back the memories of our electric encounters.
He pushes himself from the ledge and turns around. ‘And then I wanted you even fucking more. I lost sight of my objective, Eleanor. You distorted everything.’ He keeps his distance, but his eyes don’t waver from mine. ‘I had the strongest urge to push you away, but an even stronger fucking urge to pull you closer.’
I’m unable to process what he’s telling me, and definitely unable to speak. So silence falls and fills the empty space, while Becker trembles, and I try to wrap my mind around what he’s saying. ‘You fitted in perfectly.’ His words are steady and strong. ‘Not with Mrs Potts or my grandfather. You fitted in with me. In my sanctuary. In my world.’
I look away, fighting off the power of his words. My mind can talk reason. It can tell me that I shouldn’t trust him. My heart, however, will betray me. And so will my body.
‘I’ve fucked up, Eleanor. Let me fix it.’ He approaches me, slowly and cautiously. ‘Please.’ He whispers his final plea, reaching for me again, begging for my permission. His open hand hovers, quivering like a leaf, as he waits for me to say something. I don’t know what to say. My thoughts are centring on one thing, because it’s the most obvious.
His regret.
But it’s nowhere close to mine. ‘Goodbye, Mr Hunt.’ I turn and walk through to the back room, my breathing short, my head spinning.
And when I hear the door close, my coiled muscles relax.
But the hollowness returns swiftly.
Chapter 3
The sight of our cottage offers a twinge of comfort when it comes into view. Nestled in the middle of two other cottages, each bigger than ours, it looks like something out of a picture book. Cute and cosy with tiny windows and a thatched roof. It’s idyllic, not a façade. There are no wicked truths hiding behind its perfection.
I slide my key into the lock, making extra quick work of it when I hear movement from Mrs Quigg’s house next door. The town’s busybody, there’s nothing that escapes her notice, and she makes a point of making sure everyone knows, too. The whole town will hear I’m back before Mum has a chance to put the kettle on.
I push my way through the door and slam it shut behind me. Then I drop my bag to the floor and fall against the hallway wall, feeling like I’ve just run the gauntlet. Then I laugh because, technically, I have. I’m still not sure what I was thinking coming back to Helston. But of all the things I feared I would find here, Becker wasn’t one. Nor was Brent. But I’ve handled them. Set the record straight. While they continue with their pathetic games, I have a life to get on with.
‘Don’t move, motherfucker!’
I yelp, whirling around to find a baseball bat being brandished in my face. ‘Shit!’ Staggering back, I blindly grapple for the front door as my heart smashes against my chest. Then the dim, natural light is suddenly replaced with a harsh, artificial glare.
‘Eleanor?’ The sound of the gruff voice halts my frantic attempt to escape, and my grappling hands freeze on the door handle. I give my body a few moments to stop pulsing from adrenalin, my mind trying to place the voice. It doesn’t take long.
‘Paul?’ I say, slowly turning, my mind all knotted, as if it wasn’t twisted enough already. The baseball bat lowers, and I finally allow my eyes to take a good long look at the landlord of our local pub. He’s a big man, tall and round, and his head is skimming the low ceiling of our hallway. He’s in a pair of underpants, his grey hair mussed, his big nose squished from endless breakages, and his pot belly is displayed loud and proud. The ex-pro boxer is out of shape but still pretty formidable. ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask mindlessly, trying to keep my eyes on his usually happy face. It’s not happy now. Now it’s somewhere between surprise and awkwardness.
Paul laughs under his breath, backing away. ‘Um . . . yes . . . well . . .’ He stutters and stammers all over his words, and my frown lines deepen with each confusing second that passes.
There’s a sudden burst of activity behind him, and someone crashes into his back, sending him staggering forward a few steps. ‘What is it, Paul? What’s going on?’