Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Yes, sir,” says the man with a familiar Scottish accent. The warmth that rushes through me at the sound is wild. He is here. How amazing. “You’re absolutely right. I should have asked her for her apartment number when I was with her. But I am not harassing her, I promise.”
Mr. Pérez answers in Spanish, and he is not happy. I don’t understand enough to know what he’s saying. Not at the speed at which he’s talking. Though Alistair has no such problems, switching languages with ease.
“Excuse me,” I say. The conversation pauses and I raise my hand. “Gracias, Mr. Pérez. I do know him. It’s okay. Sorry to disturb you.”
Mr. Pérez nods and wanders back into his apartment without another word. He probably has soccer waiting. It’s his favorite. For Christmas, his daughter installed a huge flat-screen TV so Mr. Pérez could watch his games in high definition. I helped to lift it into place and was rewarded with a couple of pieces of tres leches cake for my efforts.
“Lilah,” says Alistair, heading my way. I couldn’t take my eyes off him if I tried. He really is like a modern-day Prince Charming. The man has such presence.
“How many doors did you knock on trying to find me?”
“That was my third. No answer at the first, and the second was slammed shut in my face.”
This is wild. I honestly never thought I would see him again. But here he is, standing right in front of me. He is neither smiling nor frowning. The sharp lines of his face are set in this careful blank, though I detect a hint of apprehension in his beautiful eyes. My heart is now beating much harder for some reason. My anxiety changing focus from worrying over my dire fate to freaking out about him and his sudden presence in my everyday life. If only I could turn off my feelings and take a break. It would be so helpful right now.
“What are you doing here, just out of interest?” I ask.
“I wanted to make sure the press wasn’t bothering you.”
“No. No sign of them so far. But doesn’t you being here increase the odds? Not that it isn’t nice to see you and all.”
He stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets. “I made sure I wasn’t followed.”
“Right.” I nod. “Well, it was just my profile in the pictures. I don’t think anyone really expects me to be in a photo with someone like you, so...yeah.”
We stand there in silence that is not comfortable in the least. Amazing how his stiff posture lends his jeans and Henley the air of formal wear. His gaze takes in my face before returning to the garden. This couldn’t be more awkward. I don’t have a clue what to say. He does not, however, make any move to leave.
I take a deep breath. “Would you like to come in?”
“Yes,” he answers with zero hesitation.
Huh. “Okay, then.”
6
He walks into my small apartment, gaze constantly moving, taking in everything. It can’t be anything like what he’s used to at home. Being a librarian isn’t the best-paying job, especially at the lower levels, and rent in this city is astounding. I also love vintage stores. Therefore, my decorating style is best summed up as “I found it discounted or for free and thought it was cool.”
In my living room, there’s a charcoal sofa (half price) with an array of colorful throw pillows (also bought on sale). A chunky wood coffee table a friend gifted me (the scars give it character). A cracked antique mirror I found on the sidewalk (definitely neither cursed nor possessed). And an assortment of pillar candles and houseplants. There’s always at least one on its deathbed in need of replacement.
But it’s my big old bookshelf that holds his interest. He bends down, and the way the denim molds to his behind is something else. The thirst is real. Not that I have any business looking. I still have no idea what he’s doing here. While we were outside, we established that the press hasn’t bothered me. But here he is, inspecting my habitat just the same.
“A lot of Nora Roberts,” he says.
“La Nora is queen.”
“Three different editions of Frankenstein?”
“Mary Shelley is life.” I shrug. “Or life after death. At any rate, they keep putting out great new hardcover editions. What’s a girl to do?”
Then he spies my battered copy of Wuthering Heights and decides to examine it. “Did you steal this from your high school library?”
“As if I would do such a thing.”
He does the solo eyebrow-raise thing. It’s definitely one of his go-to facial expressions.
“It was on the verge of falling apart, and no one had borrowed it since before I was born,” I confess. “I felt bad for it sitting there all unloved and unwanted.”
“There’s a reason that happened. Heathcliff is a dick.”