Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“Come on, Amelia, just answer the door. I know you’re in there.” A few more thuds sound as I lower to the mattress, still and quiet, praying he goes away. “Please.”
My eyes move to the clock under the TV, and I watch as the minutes tick by, Nick constantly calling and knocking, me unmoving and mute. Twelve minutes pass before I hear another voice. Security? They exchange a few heated words, loud at first, and then the voices start to drift away. I get up slowly and carefully, padding to the door and peeking through. My exhale is loud and long when I see Nick and a suited man disappear from view. Rolling onto my back, I lean against the door, my face in my hands.
I fucking dare, Amelia.
The phone by the bed starts ringing, and I move my hands from my face, staring at it for an age, scared to answer. It takes everything in me and more to find the courage, my breath held when I eventually pick up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Miss Lazenby, forgive the late-night interruption; it’s security here.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about the disturbance.”
“Indeed. We have another gentleman trying to get up to your room.”
My stomach churns so much, I fear I might throw up all over the carpet. “Who?”
“Mr. Harrison.”
Jesus Christ. “I don’t know a Mr. Harrison.” It falls out unexpectedly and quickly. Instinct. I hang up and move away from the phone, startling again when my mobile starts ringing. “Shit,” I hiss, rejecting the call from Jude. I toss it across the bed before stripping and getting in the shower, washing the day away. Just standing there, ignoring the muffled sound of my mobile ringing persistently past the noise of the water pouring down on me.
Chapter 4
Sunday morning is a flurry of goodbyes and kisses, tears and laughs. I didn’t sleep a wink, waiting for my door to be hammered down, and I was forced to put my mobile on silent after I finally braved getting out of the shower.
Everyone checks out and leaves, but I volunteer to hang around and wait for the chef to begin his shift so we can try to find out where he’s hidden the cake stand. Clark’s put a two-hundred-pound deposit on it, and he wants it back. Plus, I don’t want to go to Abbie’s just yet. I’m scared Jude will be there. Waiting to bend and break me again. Or maybe Nick will be there, ready to enhance this never-ending guilt.
Fucking hell.
In my Lululemon leggings, cropped sweater, and flip-flops—hair piled up, fuck you very much, Jude Harrison—I plonk myself in an armchair in the corner of Café Royal’s vast reception area and relax back, happy to take the opportunity to be alone somewhere no one can find me. I reach for the paper on the table in front of me. The Financial Times. Perfect. It makes a change from reading it digitally.
Flipping it open, I start scanning the articles for ones of interest, settling on the hostile takeover of the international freight company XYZ. It doesn’t feature in my portfolio, but I know it does Gary’s. I check the date on the paper. Yesterday. Gary would have seen it, right? Just the mere fact I ask myself has me pulling my phone out and calling him. He’s at Windermere this weekend, so chances are he hasn’t.
It rings and rings before sending me to his voicemail. “Hey,” I say, leaning forward and slipping the paper onto the rich wooden table. “I just read about the XYZ takeover and wanted to make sure you’d seen the article in the Financial Times yesterday. Call me.” I hang up and stand when I see Rachel and Clark’s wedding planner, Martina, appear across the lobby.
She spots me and smiles, floating towards me, only her legs seeming to move as she walks. “Amelia, I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting. We found the stand!”
“Oh, that’s great.”
She motions for me to follow. “Chef put it in the pantry cupboard out of the way and neglected to tell me before he went off shift. I feel awful. The sous-chef stacked the tiers directly on top of each other and they sank under the weight!”
“I’m sure they’ll get over it,” I assure her. “It’s already been eaten anyway.”
She laughs, loud and over the top. “Sure, sure.”
We pass through the lobby, and Martina leads me up the first flight of marble steps. “It’s this way.”
“To the kitchen?” I ask.
“Yes.” She flashes me a toothy smile and leads me down a corridor, stopping at a door. “Here.” She opens it, and the very second I step inside and figure out we’re in no kitchen, the door closes behind me, making me jump. And the wedding planner isn’t in the room with me.
Jude is.
“I told you I dared,” he says, relaxed in the leather club chair by the window that looks out over Piccadilly Circus. Waiting for me. His expression is cool. The giant illuminated billboard glows behind him.