Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“If he’s bothering you, Faye...”
I changed the subject, pasting on a smile. “This is great. To have my old desk back, it means a lot. Thanks.”
He couldn’t resist the snipe. “It’s not a marriage proposal.” Despite the snark in his tone he squeezed my wrist just a little bit tighter. The urge to unravel stretched its limbs, the need to be consumed by a force stronger than me, stronger than Vincent.
I took a breath, pushed it aside. “Still, thank you.”
“We’ll see if you’re still saying that at the end of the week.” He let go of me, and walked away, only to return with a pile of mail. “Today’s,” he explained. “Accounts paperwork can go in the tray, cheques can go to be banked. He handed me a paying in book. “Down the road, same place it used to be.”
“I remember.”
“Good.” He leaned over me to sort the envelopes into piles. His hand on the back of my chair, his shoulder against mine, and the scent of him, like a desert breeze, hot and oriental. “You get a feel for this without even opening them. Start with these, they should be the cheques.”
I found I was touching him, gripping his arm, fingers tight around the solid flesh beneath his shirt. His face was so close to mine, much too close. He swallowed. Dark eyelashes fluttered. “…Don’t do this, Faye.”
My fingers traced their way up to his shoulder, until they were ghosting along the tender skin of his neck. He closed his eyes. “...Don’t.”
“…I want to thank you. I want to feel like I belong here again.”
“Then sort the mail. Take those cheques.”
I let out my breath. “Ok.”
He retreated to the safety of his own desk, where he buried himself in his laptop and barely looked at me. I organised the cheques, recorded them on the incoming spreadsheet, and tallied them up for the paying in book.
“I won’t be long.”
I picked up my mobile, but thought better of it. I left it on my desk, instead.
***
Andy
I was gasping for caffeine by the time Topaz brought coffee. She set it down and glanced at Faye’s empty spot.
“Yes, that’s her desk. She’s gone to the bank,” I said.
She smiled politely, almost making it clean out of the room before I called her back. She approached slowly, wary of what was coming.
“I want answers, and I want them now. What do you know about Vincent Blackthorne?”
She wouldn’t look at me. “Pretty much everything.”
“Fine. What’s the latest? In a nutshell, please.”
“New book release in a few weeks,” she said. “Bird in the bush.”
“Why did she leave Italy?” I demanded.
Topaz fiddled with her nose ring. “I don’t know. Honestly.”
“You asked her about him, though, didn’t you?” I could see the fear in her eyes. “Answer the question, Topaz, I know you pissing well asked her. If I was going to fire you, I’d have done it by now. Don’t make me regret my decision.”
“She said he’s brooding, serious. A creative type.”
“A flouncy fucking fairy, probably.” I couldn’t hide my disdain. “He writes porn, doesn’t he?”
“Erotic romance, Mr Morgan. It’s not porn.”
“All the same bloody thing if you ask me.” I knew I was scowling. “What’s the deal with his books?”
She took a breath. “His latest series is about a woman, Magpie. He meets her at a conference, their eyes meet and there’s this crazy fated connection. She becomes his pretty bird, his muse. It’s very intense, very romantic. Very dark.”
“Dark?”
“It’s a turbulent love affair, jealous, and sexual and... well... it’s dark...”
“A crock of old shit,” I scoffed. I failed to mention my foray into the world of Vincent Blackthorne, an older book of his when Faye had just left. Pretentious fluff. Up his own arse and then some. I’d thrown the thing in the bin before reading past chapter two.
“I don’t think it’s shit. I think it’s real.” Topaz shifted her weight from hip to hip, stared at me. “She’s Magpie, isn’t she?”
“You fucking tell me.”
“Ok, then yes, she is.” She pulled her phone from her pocket, and her eyes were wide. “I didn’t know whether to ask her about it or not.”
“About what?”
“About this.” She turned the screen to my eyes and my breath caught. “It was only revealed today, I swear, and I haven’t even seen her… Even if I did, I’m not sure what I’d say.”
I gripped the phone, eyes wild and fucking crazy. Bird in the Bush. Book 4 of the Pretty Bird series. Sir Vincent Blackthorne. Like fuck he was a Sir. I’d never seen Faye look so sad as she did on that picture. Her eyes were glistening with tears, the tracks of which fell beautifully down her cheeks. Her lip would have been trembling, you could tell, a single moment of sorrow captured perfectly. Her eyes were big and dilated, and haunted. Brimming with fucking despair. And love.