Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
“Where are you going?” Debbie calls, alarmed.
“I have somewhere I need to be.” I keep my eyes forward as I navigate the Christmas-infested corridor. “You make me need a drink, Thomas,” I mutter under my breath.
Standing on the threshold of the bar at The Royal Constantine, I scan the tables. It’s not something I usually do, and I hardly want to admit why I do it this evening. It’s quiet. One man in the corner reading a paper. Not him.
Setting my coat and bag on the second stool in, I take the end one, smiling when two martinis slide toward me. “Good day?” the barman asks, making my drink pause at my lips.
“I’ve been coming here for two years, and I don’t know your name. You don’t know mine. You have never asked me if I’ve had a good day.”
“I know your name.”
“You do?”
“Camryn. I heard you telling the guy who was here on Friday.”
“Then I suppose you should tell me yours.”
“Julio.”
“Nice to meet you, Julio.”
“He was here.”
My glass is now resting on my lips, the alcohol within licking distance. “Excuse me?”
“The man. Dec. He was here again last night.” Julio starts chipping away at a block of ice.
“A coincidence?” I ask, my mind racing.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“What’s your gut telling you?”
He smirks, attention on the block of ice. “It’s telling me not.”
“Why?”
“Because he was looking for you.”
I lower my glass, still having not taken a sip. “How do you know he was looking for me?”
“Because he asked if you’d been in since Friday.”
“Oh.” I inhale, picking up my martini and having a long swig before Julio here says something else that catches me off guard. Then I tap the bar, blinking when he drops a cube of ice into a glass and it chinks loudly. He was here? Looking for me? I frown down at the bar, my heart now racing with my mind.
Odd.
Don’t you trust yourself?
Not in the least.
I take another sip of my drink, but for some reason tonight, the strong hit of alcohol doesn’t have the usual or desired effect. I swallow and place my glass down, easing back on the stool.
The barman clears his throat, so I glance up at him. He nods past me.
And something deep inside stirs. My shoulders roll of their own volition, and I slowly swivel on the stool. My inhale is sharp and unstoppable when I find him on the threshold of the bar, his stance wide as he slowly pulls the navy scarf from around his neck. Our eyes meet, my stomach flips, and I swallow down my awe. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak. He just wanders over to me and drops his case between the stools, removes his coat, collects mine off the stool next to me, and hangs them on the nearby coat stand. Then he helps himself to the stool beside me, pulling my spare martini close by the tips of his fingers on the base.
I let my stool turn until I’m facing him, my knees nearly touching his thighs. “Hello again,” I say quietly as he helps himself to a sip of my deterrent drink.
“Hello.” He turns his eyes my way, and my world seems to shift as I stare into them. “Tell me why you come here,” he orders softly.
“No.”
He pouts, squinting thoughtfully as he sips some more. “Tell me how old you are.”
“Thirty-seven.”
“Tell me the reason your husband wants a divorce.”
“No.”
“Tell me your favourite Christmas movie.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Tell me how long you were married.”
“Nine years.”
“Together?”
“Twelve.”
“Your birthday.”
“Tenth of March.”
“Your favourite colour?”
I remain quiet. I don’t see colour anymore.
“Food?”
“I eat to survive.”
“You must have a favourite food.”
I take a sip of my drink on a shrug, making him inhale deeply and exhale loudly. I don’t have a favourite anything.
“Have you signed your divorce papers yet?”
I shake my head.
“Do you still want to be married to him?”
I pause, my drink on its way back down to the bar, and the welcome sense of lightness vanishes. I look away from him, feeling him assessing me. Trying to figure me out.
And I can’t let him. I’ve said too much, told him too much. I place my drink down and slip off my stool. “It was nice to see you again,” I say, edging out, brushing past him as I do.
His hand shoots out and grabs my arm, and the feel of his touch, even over the arm of my long-sleeved dress, makes me freeze. I look at his big fingers wrapped around me. “Don’t go,” he says quietly.
“And why do you want me to stay?”
“Because I like you.”
I brave facing him. He likes me. I like him too. But I don’t say so, my head telling me to get the hell out of here before I get myself into something I’m not ready for.
Or want.
And yet I take my stool anyway, and Dec nods to Julio for two more martinis. “I have one more question,” he says, turning on his stool to face me. He reaches for my bare knees and lays his hands on them, and my heart beats its way up to my throat, making breathing hard. “Why did you come here tonight?” he asks softly, holding my eyes.