Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
“We’re going to have to tell him I blurted and spoke to Orla. He might be really fucked off with me.”
“Yes, we will have to tell him, but I’m sure he’ll be as forgiving as me. He loves you to bits, just like I do.”
I smile at that. Yes, he does. We all love each other. It’s a triangle of adoration and respect, and it was me who took matters into my own clumsy hands and proceeded without caution.
Josh kisses my head, then glugs a glass of water. It’s going to be a very welcome sensation to have his warm radiator body pressed next to mine.
It’s been a long night with him on a proposal, and me waiting on eggshells for him to D&S and finally get home after my Orla blurt out.
I cosy up under the covers with him, thanking my lucky stars all over again at the greatness of what I have.
So many women from his party earlier would be jumping with glee at the chance to be here with him right now. He’s got a personality that easily equals the horny magnificence they’d have seen from him tonight.
But I’m the one he comes home to.
I’m the one who gets all the wonderful sides of him, even when I’ve pissed him off.
We’re still in bed, the sun bright around the blinds when Josh’s ringtone sounds out loudly from his bedside table.
He scuffles around, half asleep, patting the table to find it. When he does, he sits up in bed, staring at the screen with a look of shock.
“It’s Tiff,” he says, then answers with a hello.
Jesus. I can hear the frantic sound of sobbing through the handset as I lie beside him. My heart lurches.
“Tiff?” Josh asks. “Tiff? Are you alright? Tiff?! What’s happened?! Do you need help? I’m coming now. Just tell me where you are, and I’ll be there.”
He’s already leaping from bed, dashing towards the wardrobe, and I prop myself up, ready to dash along with him if need be.
I can’t hear her side of the conversation, only his.
“Ok, but you need to come right here, right now, understand me? Straight to Belgravia and up to ours. No excuses, Tiff. Just get here.”
He hangs up and turns to face me.
“This isn’t good,” Josh says. “She sounds an absolute wreck.”
I look at him in horror.
“What’s happened?”
“No idea. She was too fucked up to say.”
Tiff falls into Josh’s arms as soon as he opens the front door about thirty minutes later, and her attire knocks me for six, because the red-haired beauty is dressed up like an elf. An actual elf with stripy tights, like she’s been performing at a stage show. I get a lurch in my stomach as Josh squeezes his best friend tight and lets her cry against his chest. There’s been a lot of that lately.
Tears of joy, tears of pain, tears of fear.
“I fucked up,” she sobs. “I fucked up so fucking bad.”
Josh doesn’t push her for words, just rocks her gently as her tears stream. This is so unlike Tiff, it feels bizarre to watch, so I don’t watch. I leave them to it, in privacy. It’s him she needs right now, not me.
I retreat to the living room and take a seat, hitching my legs up and holding a pillow to my chest. I feel so bad for her. So worried. Because whatever’s happened must be serious. Really fucking serious. The tears prick at my own eyes, in sympathy for our friend. Whatever she’s going through must be horrific, and so is the unknown.
When Josh leads her through to the living room, she drops into her usual spot on the sofa, with Josh right beside her. He rests his hand on her knee and tells her to breathe. Calm. In and out, in and out. She listens to him, sucking in air through her nose and blowing it out through her mouth, clearly struggling to regain the use of words.
Both me and Josh give her our full attention, poised ready to hear her words.
“I fell in love with Santa. At the mall.” She gestures to me with wide eyes. “When me and you went that day, and I sat on his lap.”
Oh my God, Santa.
“I remember,” I say. “The client with no bookings. Were you his first? The owner of the mall?” She pauses.
That pause speaks volumes.
My mouth drops open in shock.
“Oh crap, have you fallen in love with a client, Tiff? Has Orla found out or something?!”
My own situation is coming to haunt me. My late-night conversation with our Agency co-ordinator still fresh in my mind.
She shakes her head, a fresh sob rising from her chest.
“He’s not just a client… the owner of the mall is a, um… he’s a…”
I wait. Poised. Confused.
“He’s a founder,” she tells us. “Reuben Sinclair. He’s a founder, and I went back to the grotto, and I fell in love with him. And now it’s over. It’s all gone to shit.”