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)
An awful mechanical grinding sound comes from deep within the door when I try to lower the glass. Excellent. I push on the door, and he opens it wide before taking a step back and giving me space. He is tall with fair skin and dark stubble. But most of his face is hidden behind black sunglasses and a baseball cap.
“I’m fine,” I say, climbing out of the remains of my car. “Thank you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Are you all right?”
He just nods.
Paul from security is jogging through the parking lot toward us. How do I even explain this? A meltdown due to a music malfunction? Fuck my life. Seriously.
The man with the sunglasses wanders back to his own vehicle. He almost looks a little like... No. That would be whatever word is beyond ridiculous. I know I am not dealing well when I start misplacing words. Not good. The man licks his lips and turns away as if he needs a moment. “You almost hit my car.”
“But I didn’t.”
“But you almost did,” he says tersely. The vehicle in question is old, silver, and streamlined—a thing of beauty. Another damn sports car. Why do luxury vehicles suddenly seem to have it in for me? I can see why he would be upset at the thought of it being damaged. However, my vehicle is destroyed and my day has been awful. I am the clear winner in this situation. Or loser, as the case may be. But this doesn’t stop his lips from flatlining in unhappiness. “You almost hit me.”
“And yet the fact remains that I didn’t. I missed you and hit the concrete bollard instead. Didn’t I?”
Nothing from him.
“Didn’t I?”
People obviously don’t often contradict him. Because it takes him an overly long moment to admit, “Yes. You did.”
“Thank you.”
He stares at me and I stare right back at him. At least, I think that’s what he’s doing behind those dark glasses. It’s no joke to say the man is fire. He has to be a model or an actor or something. Though almost everyone is in this town. Stubble lines a jaw that could win architectural awards. His car and clothes scream quiet luxury. A simple modern black leather jacket with matching jeans, tee, and boots. And they’re all low-key, classy, and well cut.
Paul slowed down and is talking to someone on his cell phone. I hope it’s not the police or Patricia. It’s probably just him reporting to the security office that there’s been an accident. Fingers crossed.
On the bright side, Good Witch Willow didn’t see this one coming. There was no prophecy about crashing my car. It could almost be taken as a positive if you didn’t look at it too closely. And right now, I need all the doubt I can rally when it comes to her and her skills of divination.
“Your vehicle doesn’t look good,” says the tall, dark, and handsome stranger. “It’ll need to be towed.”
“Yeah.”
He sighs and with an air of great reluctance asks, “Do you have a safe way home?”
“I’ll sort something out. Thanks.”
“Right.” He nods. “I should go, then.”
“Okay.”
He nods again, and this time I can feel his gaze on me. The weight of his regard. I have to say, the sensation is not unpleasant. Then he takes off his sunglasses.
People talk about where they were when some momentous historic event occurred. How it imprinted on them. A pristine memory unlike any other. They remember exactly where they were when they heard the news and how they felt—and they never forget. Because suddenly their life was divided into before and after. This is one of those moments for me.
Alistair George Arthur Lennox, the illegitimate son of the king of England, has eyes the same shade as the blue spring sky. The one I drove to work beneath not so long ago. Such a beautiful color. His gaze immediately turns wary. Like he’s used to being recognized and it doesn’t make him happy. Meanwhile, the clock inside my head is back and ticking louder than before.
“Noooo. You’re not him.” I take one step back and then another, until I am backed up against my car, scared and cornered with nowhere to go. “You’re not. You’re someone else. Because if you were him it would mean what the witch said was right and I... No. You’re not you. Absolutely not.”
His heavy brows draw tight together. “What are you talking about?”
“I said no.”
“Are you okay?” Paul from security puffs out his chest. “Is this guy bothering you, Lilah?”
“Everything is fine,” I say, diving back into my car. My insurance details are in the glove box. “Here you go. That’s what you need, right?”
Paul juggles my license, car keys, and insurance paperwork. “Yeah.”
“I’ve never been in an accident before. But no one is hurt and nothing is damaged apart from my car.”