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)
‘Mr H and Mrs Potts really didn’t think it was a good idea for me to accompany you today,’ I muse, waiting to see what reaction that statement draws.
‘You still have a lot to learn about the Hunt Corporation, Eleanor.’
‘Like?’
‘Many things.’ He looks across the car and smiles. ‘You’ll learn along the way.’
I return his smile, looking forward to learning everything there is to know. ‘Your grandad seems sad.’ Becker appears unaware of his grandfather’s feelings. Or is he just ignoring them?
He laughs it off. ‘Is that a statement or a question?’
‘It’s an observation.’
‘He’s an old man.’ He flicks his eyes briefly to mine. ‘He hasn’t been the same since he lost Mags.’
‘Your grandmother?’ I ask, shifting to face him. Am I about to learn a little more about the Hunt family history?
‘Yes, my grandmother.’ He’s talking with complete detachment. ‘Died twenty-five years ago.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Human nature has me reaching for his left hand, which is currently holding the gearstick, and squeezing gently in a sign of compassion.
‘Don’t be.’ He glances down and flexes his fingers. I snatch my hand back, injured that he didn’t accept my offer of comfort.
‘And your father?’ I ask tentatively, wondering if he’ll open up about him.
Becker laughs, not the reaction I was expecting. ‘Jesus, princess. What’s with the twenty questions?’ He’s trying to evade my enquiry, but I’m now more intrigued than ever.
‘If it’s too painful, I understand.’
‘It’s not painful,’ he mutters. ‘I’m over it.’
I flinch at his brutality, his harsh assertion cutting deeply. I hate to think what his grandad would make of that. So he’s in therapy for fun, is he? I detect hot resentment, and despite Mrs Potts’s warning words to never speak of it, I go for the jugular. ‘Do you want to talk about it? I’m a good ear.’
Becker looks at me out the corner of his eye. ‘Can I call a friend?’
My lips straighten, unamused.
‘What about fifty-fifty?’ he asks.
‘Not funny.’
‘Okay, I’ll ask the audience,’ he relents on a sigh, taking a corner fast.
‘You have no audience.’ I gasp, grabbing the door handle for dear life. He seems to be getting faster and faster, and I wonder if it’s because I’m getting personal. It’s making him edgy.
His attention is being divided equally between the road and me, back and forth. ‘Why not ask about my mother?’ That resentment has just doubled.
I swallow hard, now unsure of how to handle this. ‘She died in a car accident.’
‘Well done,’ he says coldly. ‘Now ask about my father’s death.’ The playful, cheeky Becker has been lost amid my questioning, and I seriously dislike myself for it. ‘C’mon, Eleanor.’ He laughs callously. ‘Don’t wimp out on me now.’ Another corner is taken fast, this one sharp, and then he’s swinging into the right-hand lane to overtake a tractor.
I clutch my seat, fear beginning to grip me. He’s being reckless. I’ve sparked anger in him – deep-rooted, damaging anger. ‘Becker.’ An oncoming car sounds its horn and flashes its lights as it coasts towards us. ‘Becker, stop.’ My hand flies out and grabs his arm. The car is getting closer and closer, the horn louder and louder, and then, as smoothly and calmly as can be, Becker zips back on to the correct side of the road. He makes it just in time. The car sails past, the horn a continuous blare until it fades into the distance.
My palm slaps on my chest to stop my thundering heart from breaking free.
‘They’re both dead, Eleanor,’ he says calmly, like he hasn’t just given me the fright of my life. Was that a warning? Don’t pry again, or I’ll scare the god-loving shit out of you? ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t appreciate me asking about your dead father.’
My mouth falls open. ‘How . . .’ My question fades to nothing. Of course. His grandfather must have told him.
He flicks me a sideways glance. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Don’t be,’ I snap. ‘I’ve come to terms with it.’ His acknowledgement of my loss was hardly sincere. It was lip service. He couldn’t give a flying fuck about my loss. I should adopt the same detachment where his heartbreaks are concerned. Problem is, he doesn’t seem heartbroken. He seems more . . . angry.
He breathes out deeply, and I look down at his hand when it lands on mine, squeezing. The move is unexpected and definitely in the grey area of our working relationship. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so short with you.’ He gives me a faint smile, one that I find easy to return. I should have listened to Mrs Potts and kept my mouth shut.
‘I shouldn’t have pried.’
He shrugs. ‘Tell me about your father.’
I laugh a little. ‘He’ll probably be looking down on me now shaking his head.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he never really appreciated the high-end world of this business.’