‘Can’t wait to party with you at the wedding!’ In her usually bubbly way, she waves and hangs up the call. I drop my phone onto the table and let out a small, angryfuck.
At least I have my hot-neighbour-abduction-project to distract me in the meantime.
A single password really can open up so much information. I pin Roman’s calendar for the next month onto my corkboard, attacking it with a highlighter. Meetings I’ll have to cancel, uploads I’ll have to schedule. Friends I’ll have to blow off. The only person who might cause an issue is his grandmother. Seems he sees her weekly, and he’ll miss at least one of those.
Smiling, I read back over his exchange with her. A mixture of funny memes, videos, and her berating him to move on with his life. She seems sweet in that slightly terrifying way only grannies embody, like a bumblebee, she can bring all the honey, but there’s a sting available when required. I like her.
Not that I’ll ever meet her.
No, after taking Roman, assuming he survives my father’s house, I’ll probably need to move. Bumping into him in the corridor is awkward enough already – far less with a kidnapping between us.
My phone buzzes, dancing on the counter. Eliza’s been full of excitement as Dad’s wedding grows closer, whereas my stomach feels heavier by the day.
With less than a week to go before the big day, trepidation weighs me down. I can barely focus when I’m at work, my boss having pulled me up on my distraction twice already this week.
‘How’s it going with your hottie? Are you guys official yet?’
‘Yeah, of course. It’s great!’ A great big pile of steaming trouble.
‘Send me a pic of the two of you together, Dad’s been asking to see.’
Fuck a duck. Dad is always so bloody suspicious of everything. I wouldn’t even be in this mess if it weren’t for him trying to marry me off to that twatwaffle Eddie. So he’s pretty good at killing… hardly a top marriage pro. Even in the normal population, you are most likely to be murdered by your spouse; marrying a man who kills without hesitation isn’t high on my goals list.
‘Busy just now, I’ll send some over later. Love you!’ Fingers crossed that gets her off my back for a day or two.
How on earth will I get a picture of us together?
Groaning, I drop my phone back onto the counter and press my forehead to the cold surface, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.
I just need to tell them all to fuck off. That I won’t marry Eddie, and I won’t be joining their murderous business model.
As if.In a family like mine, you do as you’re told, not as you want. Expectations aren’t really expectations; they are requirements.
With my insides squirming like they are packed with coiling worms, I pop on the kettle, deciding to use the age-old medication of a cup of tea to soothe myself. Unfortunately, the milk carton lingers in the recycle bin.
Damn it.
Standing there, I weigh up how much I really want the tea. Enough to traipse down to the corner shop and pick some up? If I don’t go, I’ll have to go in the morning, which means dragging my butt out of bed even earlier. Which I’m no fan of. Mornings are evil enough as is.
‘Fine,’ I grumble to myself, grabbing my big coat and pulling it on. I don’t bother tying the laces of my Doc Martens, leaving them loose. It’s just down the stairs and a few businesses down, so not worth the hassle.
Looking like I’ve been dragged through a bush backwards, I hurry down the stairs, hoping not to bump into anyone.
The shopkeeper has seen me rocking the messy ponytail and sweatpants regularly, and doesn’t blink at my harried milk purchasing, popping my coins into the till before handing back my change. She snaps her gum and blinks at me as I mumble a thanks. Her face breaks into a huge grin, and I furrow my brow. I’ve never seen her smile.
It takes me a moment to realise it’s not me she’s grinning at. Turning, I spot Roman in one of the three aisles, perusing the ready meals.
Oh God.
I do not need him to see me in my bobbly old sweatpants.
Grabbing the milk to my chest, I dodge him, turning away as he heads up the aisle towards the counter.
From the glimpse of him, he, of course, looks ready to walk a bloody sportswear catwalk. The tight vest clings to his muscles, and a light layer of sweat still clings to his tan skin. Paired with shorts and trainers, I assume he’s on his way back from the gym. God, I look like a red-faced, puffing, wild-haired loser on the rare occasion I work out, yet he saunters around like a bloody Greek god.
It’s just rude to be that hot.
I make it to the door without being spotted, glancing through the window to see the shopkeeper flirting hard with Roman at the counter.
