Page 32 of The Alpha Escort Agency
“My flat wasn’t that bad,” she mumbles.
“Have you ever hoovered under your sofa?”
“Well, no.”
Reaching for the glass of water on the bedside cabinet, he lifts his head and takes a long drink, then offers it to her. She sits up and downs the remaining water, wiping away the wetness with the back of her hand. “There’s just me and Mum now.”
Pulling himself up, he rests against the headboard and waits.
“My sister emigrated to Australia.”
“And your dad?”
Her dad.
What would her dad say about this? He’d probably find it hilarious. He could always make her laugh. Whenever she was worried or anxious or down, he’d find something in the situation to make her snigger. Sometimes his constant joking around would get on her mum’s nerves, but he’d just wink at her and her sister and wrap his arms around her mum, smothering her neck in wet sloppy kisses until they were all giggling.
She can’t remember the last thing her dad had said to her, but she’s pretty sure it was a funny comment about the dog because she’d swung her gaze away from him and out to the surf where their Irish hound bounced in and out of the waves, chasing the sea-line as it sucked backwards, and retreating as it raced down the smooth sand, his glossy coat shining red in the bright sunlight.
When she’d turned back, the low winter’s sun had blinded her and she couldn’t see her dad. And then she had; a black silhouette against the faintly blue sky fallen to his knees, his hand clutching the left side of his chest.
It had taken her several long seconds to process the scene and to understand. They’d walked far from the town, out along the seafront, and there’d been no one to call, no one to help, just grass waving on the distant sandbanks, the sea crashing against the shore. He was dead before the ambulance reached them.
“He died. Eight years ago now.” She swallows down hard. “Sorry ... I … miss him.”
He extends his hand, his thumb brushing over her cheek.
“Can we do this again, Alice?”
“Again?”
“Yes, I mean, see each other again.” Her signature, firmly scrawled in black ink, marks the contract she signed with the agency. She imagines his own is stamped on a different contract. Then there’s the pitch and all the hours she needs to put in, plus the promise she’d made to herself. The one she’s kept solemnly all these years.
Okay, it’s not part of the plan, it’s about as far away from the plan as is practically possible to be. But she doesn’t care. She’s beginning to think that plans were made to be broken. Especially when they’re broken by a six foot three Alpha with eyes that make her knees weak and a body that has her mouthwatering, whose voice melts her insides, who makes her giggle with his seriousness and giddy with his attention. She’s worked hard, she’s kept herself dedicated to the plan for the last eight years. Surely, she’s earned a little fun.
His thumb travels over to her lips, tracing along the lower one, making her shiver.
“Yes," she replies.
Chapter 10
Her warm, little hand rests in his and they stroll together along the river Lea. Unlike the trees in London, here, north of the city, the leaves have already turned; reds, oranges and yellows hanging in the branches, drifting to the ground, and floating on the still water, and some trees completely bare.
Around them other people jog or walk alone or in couples, a few family groups, a couple of cyclists. A dog barks excitedly and dives under the water’s surface, its owner desperately calling it back, and in the distance a long train rumbles over a bridge.
He points out a kingfisher cowering in a bush, the wild roses still blooming in the hedgerow, and the entrance of a badger’s set. At the lock, they watch as a long boat glides inside and the owner twists the mechanism to first shut one set of the doors and then open the other, water gushing down into the river and the boat sinking to the lower levels.
Further on, he spots a chestnut tree and they kick about the dead leaves around the trunk, searching for the shiny brown teardrops of sweet chestnuts.
“What do we do with them?” she asks, stuffing handfuls inside her coat pockets.
“Roast them. Have you never eaten them?” Rolling his own collection into the belly of his bag, he watches her kicking her booted feet at the leaves.
“No.” She holds one up to her nose and gives it a sniff. “Are you sure this isn’t another oyster trick?”
“I thought you liked the oyster.” He spots two on the ground by his feet, and turns them over in his hand, examining their shiny shell for mould.
“Bit too slimy.”
