Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Alessia’s face lights up like a summer’s day.
Ah. Shoes…the way to every woman’s heart.
* * *
In a nearby shoe shop, she chooses a pair of stout ankle boots in black.
“You’ll need more than one pair of shoes,” I say.
“These are all I need.”
“Here, these are nice.” I hold up a pair of ballet flats. I wish they stocked high-heeled fuck-me shoes, but alas—everything in the store is practical.
Alessia hesitates.
“I like these,” I say, hoping my opinion will influence her decision.
“Okay. If you like them. They are nice.”
I grin. “And I like these.” I hold up a brown leather knee-high boot with a heel.
“Maxim,” Alessia objects.
“Please.”
She gives me a reluctant smile. “Okay.”
* * *
“We can leave your boots for recycling here,” Maxim says as they stand at the sales counter. Alessia looks down at the new boots she’s wearing and then at her old pair. They are all she has left of her clothes from home.
“I would like to keep them,” she says.
“Why?”
“They are from Albania.”
“Oh.” He looks surprised. “Well, perhaps we can get them resoled.”
“Resoled? What is this?”
“Repaired. The bottom of the shoe replaced. Understand?”
“Yes. Yes,” she replies, excited. “Resoled.”
She watches as Maxim hands over his credit card once more.
How can she ever repay him?
One day she’ll earn enough money to pay him back. In the meantime she has to think of something she could do for him. “Remember, I want to cook,” she says.
This is one way.
“Today?” Maxim asks as he picks up her bags.
“Yes. I want to cook for you. To say thank you. Tonight.”
“Okay. Let’s take these bags back to the car, and we can shop for food after we’ve had some lunch.”
They dump the bags in the small trunk of the car, and as they walk hand in hand to a restaurant, Alessia tries not to dwell on Maxim’s generosity. It is rude in her culture to reject a gift, but she knows what her father would call her if he knew what she was doing. He would either kill her or have a heart attack. Probably both. She’s already dishonored him, and until recently she had the bruises to prove it. Once again she wishes he were more open-minded—and less violent.
Baba.
Her mood nosedives.
* * *
We lunch at Rick Stein’s Café. Alessia’s quiet, and when we order our food, she’s a little subdued. I wonder if it’s because I’ve spent money on her clothes. Once the waitress has taken our order, I reach over and take Alessia’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Alessia, don’t worry about the money. For the clothes. Please.” She gives me a tight smile and takes a sip of her sparkling water.
“What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head.
“Tell me,” I insist.
She shakes her head again, turning away to stare out the window.
Something is off.
Shit. Have I upset her?
“Alessia?”
She turns back to face me, and she looks distraught.
Fuck.
“What is it?”
She gazes at me, dark eyes clouded with misery, and it’s like a knife to my gut.
“Tell me.”
“I cannot pretend I am on holiday,” she says softly. “You buy me all these things, and I can never pay you the money. And I don’t know what will happen to me when we go back to London. And I am thinking about my father and what he would do to me”—she pauses and swallows—“and to you, if he knew what we had done. I know what he would call me. And I’m tired. I’m tired of being afraid.” Her voice is a raw whisper, and tears shine in her eyes. She looks directly at me. “That is what I am thinking.”
I stare back. Paralyzed, but empty and aching. For her.
“That’s a lot to think about,” I murmur.
The waitress returns with our food and cheerily places my Californian chicken sandwich in front of me and the butternut squash soup in front of Alessia. “Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yes. Fine. Thanks,” I say, dismissing her.
Alessia picks up her spoon and stirs her soup while I’m helpless and floundering for something to say. Her voice barely audible, she says, “I am not your problem, Maxim.”
“I never said you were.”
“That is not what I mean.”
“I know what you mean, Alessia. Whatever happens between us, I want to be sure you’re okay.”
She gives me a sad smile. “I am grateful. Thank you.”
Her response angers me. I don’t want her gratitude. I think she’s got some old-fashioned notion about being my mistress. And what her father has to do with us, I don’t know. It’s 2019. Not 1819.
What the hell does she want?
Fuck. What do I want?
I watch as she lifts her soup spoon to her lips, her face pale and sad.
At least she’s eating.
What do I want? From her?
I’ve had her beautiful body.
And it’s not enough.
It hits me. Like a sledgehammer. Right between the eyes.
I want her heart.
Fuck.
Chapter Seventeen
Love. Confusing. Irrational. Frustrating…Exhilarating. This is what it feels like. I am madly, crazily, ridiculously in love with the woman sitting opposite me.