Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 31559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
I risk it and hit the button. Thankfully when I step on, it's empty. I find myself holding my breath as we pass each floor. This is ridiculous, but the worry is real because when the elevator stops, my stomach sinks. The doors slide open, and a man in a fancy suit steps on. His eyes scan me from head to toe, and then he gives me a smirk, and I smile back, praying he doesn't make small talk. My prayer crashes and burns before it can take flight.
“You're new?”
“I am.”
He holds his hand out. “I'm Nick.”
“Belle.” I shake his hand, and his hold lingers, making me feel awkward. The man, while handsome, could be my father.
“We should do coffee sometime.”
“Oh.” I didn’t expect him to say that. I thought he might ask how much I charge for cleaning, thinking I was new, as in a new staff member.
“It’s the neighborly thing to do.” His smile grows, and I am unsure whether this is the moment to mention that I’m married or if he genuinely wants to get to know me as a neighbor. His expression is kind, but I have never been great at reading people.
I really don’t want to say I’m married and have him look at me like I’ve lost my mind for thinking it was a date. It could also be one of those polite comments made when there are no real plans to meet up at all.
“Rain check?” I ask. If he is only being friendly, it might not be the worst thing to know another person in the building. To make friends.
“I'll hold you to that.” He winks at me as the door slides open, his hand gesturing for me to go first.
“Thank you,” I tell him, hurrying out of the building before I get myself tangled up in another conversation. I really should start taking the service elevator. It will save me from the uncomfortable elevator rides and the small talk.
The trek to the coffee shop isn't far. I should try out a new place, but I keep thinking about the eclairs I saw yesterday and want to try one. Once inside, I order it and a hot chocolate. I snag the same table as I had yesterday, slipping off my coat and pulling my Kindle out. I settle in, enjoying the simple sounds of light chatter and laughter coming from the two employees behind the counter. This feels normal. Not cold and lonely like my new place.
Wow, I'm really losing it if I have to go out to a coffee shop to feel less alone. I pull up the cozy mystery I was reading as the bell over the door chimes and a tall man wearing a wool overcoat steps inside. His eyes glance around the shop. He appears out of place. This man shouldn't be picking up his own coffee.
It doesn’t go unnoticed by me that I’m not the only one that is watching him. The chatter suddenly seems a bit quieter. I try not to stare, but it’s almost impossible. It’s as though everything around me is happening in slow motion. My focus is solely on him, taking in all of his features.
His dark hair looks a bit disheveled, but it fits him perfectly. Even though he’s wearing an overcoat, it doesn’t hide how broad his shoulders are or the fact that he has an equally expensive suit on under it.
When his perusal of the coffee shop gets to me, he pauses, our eyes locking. I suck in a breath as we hold each other's stare, unable to look away.
“Your hot chocolate.” The barista breaks the spell I've fallen under.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
What is wrong with me? Am I that lonely? Never have I had this kind of reaction to a man, and as terrible as it is with me being a married woman and all, I don't want it to end.
Chapter Six
WICK
She’s looking at me. Really looking, and I’m annoyed because she’s married so she shouldn’t be looking at any man. It doesn’t matter that I’m the one she’s married to.
“What will you have?” The barista is cheery.
“Whatever she just ordered.” I jerk a thumb in Annabelle’s direction, who suddenly stares out the window instead of at me.
“Hot chocolate?” The woman sounds unsure.
I’d drink bleach if that was what Annabelle thought was tasty. “Yes.”
“Here or to go?”
Annabelle’s hands are curled around a cup. “Here.”
I move down to the pickup area of the counter, watching her the whole time. She’s staring resolutely out the window despite the Kindle lying on the table in front of her. I wonder what she reads. Picking up the hot chocolate, I arrow straight for her table, and without asking, I drop down into the chair across from her.
“There are other tables open,” she says.