Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 117740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
“You said it was hot!”
“It kinda was.” I paused. “What can I say? I’ve read too many romance novels to not be excited by a jealous, slightly possessive man in real life.”
Isa blinked at me. “Yeah, that’s actually a red flag. I don’t think Dr Waffles the chicken therapist is working out for you.”
She wasn’t wrong, but he was cheap.
“But hey, if it tickles your pickle…” She shrugged. “I won’t judge you.”
“The point is,” I said, flattening my hands on the table and meeting her gaze full-on. “I am upset. I’m upset because it’s a reminder that despite what’s happened between us, we really do live in two completely different worlds. If he didn’t have business to attend to here, he’d never step foot in a place like Hanbury, and I would certainly never visit London again. Our paths crossed by pure chance, not because of some divine intervention or because it was going to happen sooner or later. It’s a reminder that even if things were different and he wasn’t selling the allotments and we weren’t in some weird hate-love-sex situation, we still wouldn’t work.”
“You don’t know that.” Isa finally pushed the tablet away from her and leant forwards, slumping on the table. She dragged her hand through her hair. “He doesn’t hate being here, you know? And besides, London isn’t a million miles away. It’s not like it’s a six-hour flight. It’s, what? Half an hour from Exeter at a push? Maybe it would work.”
“No, it wouldn’t. The life I have here—this little quiet, cosy existence that revolves around contentiously named chickens and vegetable plots and pruning shears is not the kind of life he wants. It’s not the kind of life he lives. So, all of this…” I motioned to the tablet. “Doesn’t really matter in the end, does it?”
“Ro.” She said my name sadly, as if she were the one with an aching heart and not me.
“And before you say it, yes, I am going to talk to him. I’m going to lay it all out and explain that we should have ended this before, because as great as the sex is, a proper relationship wouldn’t work between us.”
“I remember telling you to talk it out, not unilaterally decide on your own.”
“Ah, I have to. Otherwise, do you know what will happen? I’ll get swept up in his seduction and fall prey to his sexy little schemes.” I wiggled my finger. “No, no, if I let him talk me out of it, I’ll end up naked again.”
“I dunno, can’t you just keep him as a fuck buddy?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. That sounds like a great idea, Isadora. Let me just keep having sex with the man I’ve stupidly fallen in love with. That won’t end badly at all.”
She tilted her head to the side. “You know what, it could work.”
What was wrong with her?
What was wrong with me that I kept her as my best friend?
Actually, those were stones best left unturned. God only knew what answers we’d find. Ignorance was bliss, after all.
“Maybe if you both just ignore the topic, you’ll end up accidentally getting married and living happily ever after because neither of you want to talk about it.”
“People don’t accidentally get married. There’s a very specific procedure including an in-person interview when you get the license to stop people doing dumb shit like that,” I reminded her. “So, no.”
“Well, I suppose you’re right.” Her phone buzzed, and she turned the screen towards her and groaned. “Hello… Yeah, I’m on my way. I’ll be there in ten.” She got up and rushed up the stairs, speaking some medical gobbledegook I wouldn’t understand in a million years.
I stayed where I was, sipping my coffee. I wasn’t letting this perfectly good caffeine go to waste, even if she was being called in to work.
This was the great thing about being self-employed.
The only person to call me in on a Sunday was me, and I was never going to do that.
I quickly poured her coffee into her Lilo and Stitch to-go cup and waited in the hallway for her. She ran down the stairs, now wearing a bra, and shoved her feet into a pair of Crocs. I handed her the cup and dangled her spare key from my pinky finger, indicating I’d lock the door behind me, and she gave me a grateful smile before disappearing through her front door saying something about a caesarean.
Hopefully, that meant I’d be getting furry baby pictures later.
I sat back down at the dining table and pulled the tablet towards me. I had no idea where she’d even found these pictures and this article about some fancy event Oliver had attended with Luke and Eleanor last night. Then again, it wasn’t as if I had a hobby of reading gossip columns.
Or even knew who anyone was.