Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Early.
The abandoned leather duffel bag in the hallway also confirms his presence, and so do muddy footprints in the hall. Her heart rockets into overdrive. She is thrilled; she is going to see him again.
Carefully she places his umbrella in the stand by the door so it won’t drop and wake him if he’s asleep. She’d borrowed it on Monday night. She hadn’t asked, but she didn’t think he would mind, and it had kept her dry from the freezing rain as she’d made her way home.
Home?
Yes…Magda’s house is home now. Not Kukës. She tries not to think of her old home.
She removes her boots and tiptoes along the hallway, through the kitchen, and into the laundry room. Changing into her sneakers and housecoat, she dons her scarf and decides what to clean first. He has been absent since Friday, so everything is clean. The ironing and washing are up to date, and his closet is finally neat and organized, but it’s packed. The kitchen still looks as spotless and tidy as she had left it on Monday afternoon; nothing has been touched. She has to mop up the hall, but first she will dust the shelves with all the records, then wash the windows in the living room. The balcony has a glass wall that looks out over the Thames and to Battersea Park beyond. Grabbing the window-cleaning spray and a cloth from the cupboard, Alessia heads into the living room.
She halts in her tracks.
The Mister is here. Propped up on the L-shaped couch. Eyes closed, lips parted, hair mussed and standing on end, he’s fast asleep. He is fully dressed and still wearing his overcoat, though it’s open, revealing his sweater and jeans. His filthy boots are planted firmly on the rug. In the white light that swirls through the glass wall, Alessia spies the telltale trail of dried mud all the way back to the door.
She stares at him, enthralled, and moves closer, drinking him in. His face is relaxed but a little pale, his jaw is rough with stubble, and his full lips quiver with each breath. He looks younger and not quite as unattainable as he sleeps. If she dared, she could reach down and stroke the stubble on his cheek. Would it be soft or prickly? She smiles at her silliness. She isn’t that brave, and though it’s tempting, she doesn’t want to anger him by waking him.
What concerns her most is that he looks uncomfortable. Briefly she wonders whether she should wake him so that he can go to bed, but at that moment he stirs and his eyelids open and bleary eyes meet hers. Alessia’s breath hitches.
His dark lashes flutter over drowsy eyes, and he smiles and holds out his hand. “There you are,” he mumbles, and his sleepy smile galvanizes her into action. She thinks he wants help to come to his feet, so she steps forward and takes his hand. All at once he tugs her down onto the sofa, kissing her quickly and curling his arm around her so that she’s resting on top of him, her head on his chest. He mutters something unintelligible, and she realizes he must still be asleep. “I missed you,” he murmurs, and his hand grazes her waist, then rests on her hip, holding her to him.
Is he asleep?
She lies paralyzed on top of him, her legs between his, her heart beating an insane rhythm, one hand still clutching the window-cleaning fluid and the cloth.
“You smell so good.” His voice is barely audible. He takes a deep breath, his body relaxing beneath her, and his breathing mellows into the rhythm of sleep.
He’s dreaming!
Zot! What should she do? She lies stiff and unyielding on top of him, terrified and fascinated at the same time. But what if…? What if he…? All manner of horrible scenarios suddenly run through her mind, and she closes her eyes to bring her anxiety under control. Isn’t this what she wants? What she has been longing for in her dreams? What she secretly desires in her private moments? She listens to his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. It’s steady. It’s slow. He really is asleep. She rests against him, gathering her thoughts, and as time ticks by, she relaxes a little. She spies a smattering of his chest hair in the V of his T-shirt and sweater. It’s provocative. She lays her cheek on his chest and closes her eyes and inhales his familiar scent.
It’s soothing.
He smells of sandalwood and the fir trees in Kukës. He smells of wind and rain and exhaustion.
Poor man.
He is so tired.
She purses her lips and leaves a shadow of a kiss against his skin.
And her heartbeat spikes.
I’ve kissed him!
She wants nothing more than to remain where she is, to enjoy this new and thrilling experience. But she cannot. She knows it’s wrong. She knows he’s dreaming.