Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
After a quick shower, I go to my front door, open it, and call over to the security guard posted outside twenty-four-seven. He’s not always the same guard, but I recognize this one. Henry is a tall young man with a buzz cut and a habit of not looking me in the eye. Then again, none of them seem to like looking me in the eye, almost like they’re trying to be respectful to their boss’s girlfriend. Several times, I’ve almost snapped that whatever started between Tommy and me is over now, so they might as well relax.
“Henry,” I say. “Tomorrow, I’d like to see the city. Could you ask whatever driver’s on shift if that would be okay?”
He stands from his chair with his hands behind his back. “It’s not the driver I’d need to ask, miss.”
I swallow, the word kidnapping stabbing into me. I haven’t tried leaving this place without security, but I can imagine what would happen if I did. Would they chase me down and then physically restrain me? I’m not sure they’d go that far, but I cannot leave without backup. That’s a good thing regarding safety but also a stark reminder of my situation.
“You need Tommy’s permission?”
Henry winces. He shows his emotions more than the others.
“Yes, miss.”
Because I’m not here by choice, I almost say.
“When you ask him,” I go on, “say I really want to do this. I’m tired of being locked away in this tower all the time like a princess in a freaking fairy tale.”
I don’t mean for the anger to enter my voice, but it’s there as if three days’ worth of isolation is bubbling up. Slamming the door, I go back inside, trying to focus on my personal art project for a while, but I can’t concentrate or summon the discipline. Usually, I don’t have to try, not with art, but lately, all I can think about is Tommy and the sudden coldness.
Later, the apartment buzzer rings. It’s Henry.
“Mr. Tithing will pick you up tomorrow morning, miss.”
All at once, the rage seeps away, replaced by a warm glow that should make me feel like the biggest dork in the universe or worse—used. He shouldn’t be able to burn star-bright one second and then icy cold the next. I hide my reaction, just in case Henry reports back.
“Okay, fair enough. What time?”
“Eight.”
“I’ll set the alarm. Thank you.”
Closing the door, I almost punch the air, my excitement whelms so quickly, but then I take a moment to settle myself down. This isn’t a date. He’s probably worried about me running away, but why would he care if we were over?
That one’s easy. He’s not a monster. Just because our romance is dead—I’m not sure what other conclusion I can come to—doesn’t mean he wants anything bad to happen to me.
Still, a day out in London with the man of my dreams… It’s hard to complain.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Thomas
“Are you nervous?” George asks on the phone.
I sit outside Ami’s flat, my foot tapping, black coffee buzzing in my veins.
“Maybe a little,” I say, understating it massively. “I’ve been bloody cold with her ever since…”
Bleed him dry.
I push the words out of my head. They’ve hounded me ever since I heard them, so I’ve acted like an arse, distancing myself without an explanation. I’ve checked in on her through my security team, but other than that, I’ve done my best to push her from my mind, and I’ve failed miserably. She’s always there. Even if this is a trick, I can’t stop wanting her.
“Relax,” George replies, and I can tell he’s smiling, a quirk in his voice.
“What?” I ask. We’ve been friends long enough for me not to have to explain what I’m asking.
“I’m happy you’re nervous,” he says. “I’ve never seen you like this with a woman before.”
“It’s not like there’s much to compare it to.”
“True. Want some advice from a happily married man?”
“Please.”
“Take today for what it is. Don’t worry about the gold-digger crap. Don’t let your mind ruin this for you.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” I tell him. “I’ve got to go.”
My woman is walking across the street, looking so adorably touristy I have to smile. I’m beaming brightly all over, warmth spreading, and an injection of sudden happiness immediately dominates me. It’s her, my Ami, more potent than any drug.
She’s wearing a bum bag—she’d call it a fanny pack—with denim dungarees, thick boots, her hair tied up, and a Union Jack pin over one breast. Her lips are curved into an unsure smile as she approaches, and I can’t blame her. She’s probably wondering what version of me she’s going to get. I open the car door and step outside. She stops just short of me, fiddling with the strap of her bum bag.
“Uh, hey,” she says.
The second I hear her gorgeously American voice, I know I made a mistake with the distance, the cold. Sweeping her into my arms feels like the most natural thing in the world. I expect her to push me away, but maybe she has it within her, too, this hungry need to be together. She moans erotically when I kiss her in public on the street. I don’t want anybody else to see her like this, to hear her sexy-as-hell moans, but I can’t resist. She tastes like perfection. Her body burns against me, hot through her clothes, as if her deep desire to be together is blazing through.