Page 5 of Our Little Cliche
It’s a number to a real estate agent.
A Canadian number.
Sobbing, I throw my phone and myself face first onto the bed, inaudibly screaming a bunch of nothings into the pillow until I’m dizzy.Come on, Holly, crying isn’t going to help. Think.Okay, so, whatever I’ve done involves a real estate agent, a removalist, and… another country. Had I drunk so much last Saturday I decided to leave my entire life behind?
The older man stands at my doorway, his heavy breathing catching my attention but not quite startling me. Usually, I would be creeped out by the encounter, but at this point I feel so many things all at once that him staring at me like I’m an idiot doesn’t register in my head.
My eyes fill with tears again, and his expression drops into a sympathetic one. “Sorry, Miss. But I can’t allow you in here while we’re packing. Can I get you a cuppa from down the street? I’ll call you when we’re finished. I have your number.”
Unable to decline if I wanted to, he offers me a ten dollar note and gestures for my departure. “T-thanks. I guess.”
Wiping a tear I take the money, tucking it and my phone into the pocket of my pajamas. “I’ll give you a few moments to grab what you need to, you’ve a long route ahead of you. What time’s your flight?”
My gut drops, gravity no longer in my possession.I feel sick.“Flight?”Have I booked that, too?
“To Canada?” Why does he sound like he’s asking a question?
“I’m not… leaving…”Am I?
He’s frozen for a beat, then swallows nervously. “Look I don’t know what’s happened here, but whatever is going on is clearly causing a lot of distress, and I’m deeply sorry you’re experiencing it. I can’t help you, it’s not my place to get involved. I can give you a help number if you like, but you’ll have to figure the rest out.”
“Oh,” is all I can mutter.
I don’t need a number.
I just need answers.
“I’ll give you a minute to grab what you need so we don’t take them.” He toddles off and is gone before the last word leaves his mouth.
I place my passport, purse, laptop and the manuscript pages in my tote bag while trying to wipe the waterworks away, but it’s no use as they just keep flowing. In my peach colored, hard shell suitcase my knickers are the first to go in, followed by socks, jeans, a cardigan, and my other pajamas which is a baggy shirt, then goes in a mixture of cotton tees, my floral dresses and?—
Dresses?
Did you lose a brain cell, Holly? It’s almost winter over there right now, not the middle of summer. I sigh, chucking in the only winter gear I own which is beanie with a pom pom on the top into the bag. I stow in my Kindle and a few of my go-to rom-com paperbacks in the tote. Not that I’m going to read them, but the thought of losing my favorite books byIzzy Wentworth—who’sironically from Canada—in a shipping container has me gutted, so they come with me too.
“Well, that’s about it. Books, Kindle, phone, passport, purse, and clothes. That’s all I need, I guess,” I mutter, still crying, then quickly put on my jeans, shoes and a tee. The walk to my front door is sickening, with my bags in tow, sobbing like a newborn infant with no one to blame but myself.
It’s here and now that I decide I’llNEVERdrink, or have anything to do with stupid men ever again.
Chapter Three
CYRUS
Ahh,chapter sixteen, my favorite. “There she is. The way her perfect auburn hair curls around her frame, hanging over her petite shoulders. It’s sending me into overdrive. She’s even better than my brother mentioned,” I read aloud in anticipation, my tone low and slowed, knowing exactly what lies ahead.
I’m reading… well, trying to read the paperback proof of my latest novelIn The Shadows, double checking that everything is ready for its launch, however concentration is now proving to be very difficult given that my length is painfully firm, pressed hard against my zipper.
Release day is only a week away, and Ineedto focus on the finer details. My agent needs my approval to print by first light, but the need to have a few moments with my hand on my shaft is overriding my every damn thought.
Come on, Stone. Focus. You have a deadline to beat, not your cock.
Arousal nudges at me as I continue reading. “This girl has the body of a nympho.And she’s all fucking mine. Overhearing her and my brother talking about a fantasy of hers was all I needed to swing into action.I want you to fuck me in my sleep whileyou wear a mask, were her exact words to him. My stupid twin doesn’t have the balls to commit to it. But I do. And I’m going to enjoy fucking her tight little heaven until she screams every name under the sun.”
Jesus Christ.
My cock strains against my pants even more. Why does the idea of doing something so wrong do what it’s doing to me right now? I’m not a freak. I’m not a criminal like the people in my books. I couldn’t screw a woman while she’s asleep. That’s not me—I’m just a nerd that publishes silly littlefictitiousstories. I can’t have an erection over this…
So why do I?
