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)
“Oh. My. God,” I whisper, fucking horrified.
I turn my wide eyes and open mouth to Debbie and Meredith, who proceed to fall apart all over Debbie’s desk, cackling like witches.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I ask.
They can’t answer, because both of them are incapable of speech right now. So I go back to the words, as if I need it reaffirmed, as if the words might morph into other words, and I haven’t been walking around with SANTA’S FAVORITE HO emblazoned across my back all day.
Mortified, I bunch the jumper up in my fists, huffing out my indignation, but seeing Debbie and Meredith in a full-blown laughing fit takes the edge off my irritation. Both women needed a laugh, and for that reason alone, I’m surprisingly happy to provide it, even if I’m rolling my eyes. Besides, perhaps it serves me right for being so unapproachable, I reluctantly concede. “I’ll be here same time tomorrow,” I quip, leaving them to pull themselves together, shutting my office door on their laughter.
I look at the jumper screwed up in my hand and shake my head to myself, stuffing it in my bag and calling the care home to check on Mum. “Hi, Deirdre, it’s Camryn.”
“Oh, Camryn, how are you?”
I frown. “Good.” I frown harder. “How are you?”
There’s a slight pause, and I wince, knowing Deirdre will be looking somewhat surprised. Have I ever asked her that? How she is? “I’m well.”
“Any visitors?” I ask, wondering if my brother’s finally shown his face.
“No visitors, Camryn.”
I shouldn’t be disappointed, but I am. “I’ll be there tomorrow.” As I go to hang up, I hear Deirdre call me, so I return my phone to my ear. “Yes?”
“The carols service.”
“What about it?”
“I wondered if perhaps you’d reconsidered.”
I press my lips together, my instinct yelling at me to shut this down, but I’m clearly behaving extremely out of character today, and I find some very unexpected words falling past my lips. “Let me see if I can move some things around.”
“Oh,” she sounds shocked. “That’s wonderful.”
Is it? I’m not so sure. I hang up and take a moment to process what I’ve just agreed to. Honestly, I can’t; I’m doing things and saying things I’m not sure are wise, and yet I can’t stop myself doing them and saying them.
I loved what you told me.
Dec.
A man of few words, and yet each one he speaks packs such a powerful and invigorating punch.
* * *
I’ve practiced my apology all the way here. Not to Dec, I hope he heard my sorry amid all the other things I told him when I kissed him outside his office. I’m yet to analyse what that was, it just feels so fucking huge. My apology is for Julio.
He clocks me the moment I step into the bar, and my face bunches. “I’m surprised to see you here,” he says, polishing a glass as I approach. “Or maybe I’m not.”
“I owe you an apology.”
“Sit down,” he says, dismissing me, flicking his head to my usual stool. “Two?”
I nod and do as I’m bid, perching and lowering my bag to the floor, rather than dropping it to the seat beside me, before making a quick scan of the bar.
“Who are you looking for?”
I throw Julio a tired look. “No one.” I reach down and pull my boots off, swapping them for my heels.
“The American checked out this morning, in case you were looking for him.”
“I wasn’t.” But I’m eternally relieved.
“Still snowing out there?” he asks.
“Relentlessly.”
“They’re predicting we’ve got weeks of it.”
I smile mildly, setting my phone on the bar. “Is this what we’re resorting to now? Mindless chitchat about the weather?”
“Do you want to talk about something else?”
I shrug, watching him go through the motions of making my dirty martinis. “I suppose it makes me just like any other patron you encounter daily.”
He laughs under his breath. “You are unlike any of my other patrons.”
“I’m not taking that as a compliment.”
“You should. You’re fascinating.”
I let out a light, low breath of laughter. “Stop talking, Julio, and get me my drinks.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says around a smile, pouring and setting the olives atop, then sliding them simultaneously across the bar to me. I push one in front of the stool next to me. Then I inhale, long and deep, glancing down at my phone to check the time, mentally working back to how long ago he messaged me to be here in half an hour. It was thirty-five minutes ago. Butterflies are fluttering like crazy in my tummy, and I reach down, rubbing circles to try and calm them. It’s no good. God, I’m so nervous.
What did I say in that kiss? I accept you? I accept what this is? And what is this?
Growling my frustration under my breath, I reach for my glass and pull it forward, placing the olive aside—my mouth too dry to eat it—and take a sip, fidgeting terribly. I check the time again. Check my messages.