Sixteen
Jemma tossed and turned all night. She couldn’t get the things that Molly had said about Greg, out of her head. Could she really have misjudged the man so badly?
She had told herself that if he called on Wednesday night, it would mean Molly had been wrong about him and his intentions.
But he hadn’t called and he hadn’t texted.
Would he call on Thursday? Would he ask to see her? There was only one way to find out. She’d have to wait and see.
In the meantime, she must write her book.
Except she couldn’t concentrate on that when her mind was awash with thoughts and doubts and concerns about Greg.
She got up early, despite feeling like death warmed over, and after showering and dressing she sat by the window. But not working on her book. Staring out for signs of Greg. He might go out for an early morning run as he’d told her he often did. That was how they had met. If not, she might catch him on his way to work. She could casually nip outside and say hello.
Unfortunately, she was so tired that she fell asleep and woke up long after eight, with her head propped against the glass pane and her mouth wide open. Greg’s car had gone from the road. Had he glanced at the window on his way to work and seen her asleep? Jemma hoped not.
She checked her phone for a missed call or a text, but there was nothing from Greg.
There was a text from Clarice asking if she had settled in to her summer hideaway. And how she was getting on with the book.
Jemma tossed the phone on the sofa and then plopped down beside it, curling her feet up beneath her and resting her head on the arm. Maybe she would have another quick nap. And then she would get up and get back to that book. Page one would not write itself.
