Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
‘He doesn’t want anyone holding him back?’
‘Or breaking his heart. He has no sentimentality when it comes to living, breathing things, Eleanor. Hasn’t allowed himself to since he lost so many people important to him. Heck, he barely shows me any affection any more. He’s obsessed with finding that sculpture and won’t get himself attached to anything that will hamper his search.’ I deflate, and I know he sees it. Love is an inconvenience that Becker neither needs nor wants. It’ll just add a risk of guilt to his mission, guilt like his grandad is living with. If Becker is on his own, he doesn’t need to worry about the needs and wants of another person. ‘So, dear girl, the only way this thing between you and my grandson can end is badly. He’s a lone ranger, sweetheart. You’d be silly to think you can change that.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ I whisper dejectedly, my stomach turning.
‘I love my Becker boy with all my heart, but when it comes to women, the man is an arsehole. Emotionally incapable. I like you, Eleanor. I’d hate to see you turn into a desperate, bunny-boiling fruitcake. Don’t think you can make him feel as strongly for you as he does for his treasure.’
Jesus, please stop. ‘I don’t think that.’ I drop my eyes to the table. I’m aware of the lack of buoyancy in my tone. I’m also aware that this dear old man’s grandson has already sent me somewhere close to crazy. He must have. I’m still here, tumbling deeper into his world. But I can’t seem to stop myself. Becker has a strong hold. Not that I’m exactly fighting him off.
I frantically search my twisted mind for something to say, anything to try and reassure the old man, but the kitchen door opens and we’re both distracted by who enters.
The prodigy himself.
Becker’s eyes flick between me and his grandad. Mr H doesn’t bless his grandson with his attention for long, sniffing and returning to his breakfast, whereas I, despite the crushing conversation I’ve just had, can’t help but fall into a pathetic daydream, my elbows meeting the table and my chin resting on them. He looks buff, not a word I’d usually use, but with worn jeans and a black T-shirt that hugs in all the right places – and there are a lot of right places – Becker looks drool-worthy, as per usual, but in a different way. And instead of the usual dress shoes, he has boots on. Sturdy, brown leather boots, and his jeans are caught in the tops haphazardly. Not intended, which just makes his whole scruffy outfit that little bit extra sexy. Don’t get me started on the glasses. Or the stubble. Shit, I’m in deep, complicated shit.
‘Gramps,’ Becker greets formally, face straight, lips pursed.
‘Becker,’ Mr H replies, perfectly polite but as huffy as can be.
Oh dear. I want to hide under the table. ‘Morning,’ I sing, earning doubtful looks from both men in the room.
Becker sighs his exasperation. It fills me with hope, but that’s dashed when he marches over to me and grabs the file and his phone before marching right on out. ‘In my office, princess.’ The door slams, making me jump, and Mr H’s wrinkled forehead wrinkles further.
‘Princess?’ he asks in question.
My cheeks heat. ‘I hate him calling me that.’
Mr H looks serious. And very unhappy. ‘You’ve been summoned, princess.’
‘So, lunch?’ I ask, ignoring his obvious scorn and moving things along.
The suspicious eyes are fixed. It bothers me, but I brave their scrutiny in the hope of his acceptance. I want to talk Mr H around, to encourage him to make peace with his grandson, since Becker is a stubborn twat. Problem is, Becker gets that stubbornness from someone, and I’m quite sure I’m looking at him.
‘Go on, Mr H. Let me take you out.’
‘I don’t think so, Eleanor, but thank you for offering.’
I suspect he’s not only avoiding it because he thinks I’ll pick his brain on Becker, but because he feels like I’m offering out of sympathy. He feels like a burden. The fact that I would love to hear his tales of times gone by when he trekked the world won’t appeal to Mr H. I suspect reminiscing brings back regret and heartache.
The door swings open again, and Becker appears, impatience bubbling from every pore of his face, making his young, boyish handsomeness appear rugged and worn in. He gives me an expectant look and points down the corridor. ‘Work.’
‘I’m coming,’ I say. ‘See you later, Mr H.’ I hope he doesn’t think this is the end of it. I’ll get him out for lunch if it kills me. I would love to pick his brain, but not about his grandson. I didn’t finish my university degree, but history is still my passion, and I’m sure Mr H would be an excellent teacher.