Page 8
“A peace offering?” His previously relaxed posture, now rigid. Tom and upset women—not a good mix. “You’ll feel better in something dry and warm. Put this on. Olivia won’t mind. She’s always sharing clothes with her girlfriends.”
A stranger’s clothes? Alex scrunched up her nose and shook her head. She spotted the label inside the collar—Stella McCartney. Oh, God. Designer clothing. This top wasn’t like the college sweats from home, the shirts you’d wear at all-you-can-eat wings night at the sports bar. It probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.
She pressed her lips together, and shifted her weight from one foot to another. At this point, she’d eat a slice from that gross day-old pizza or even snog Tom…anything to quash the damp goosebumps riddling her skin. And Tom presented a pretty good argument, so…
She nipped into the bathroom and slipped it over her head. Unfurled, it became a mini-dress on her small frame. Its soft sleeves reached well beyond her hands, and her breasts disappeared altogether. Is this Olivia girl some kind of giant? Alex stepped out of the bathroom, rolling the excess material above her slim wrists.
Tom chuckled. “Yeah, Olivia’s got at least six inches on you. She’s very leggy, so I can’t kit you out with her jeans. But your top half’s dry. I know it doesn’t make up for the wee room, but at least you won’t catch your death.”
“Thanks. At least I won’t stretch it or anything. You’re sure she won’t mind?”
“She won’t even know it’s missing, trust me,” said Tom.
Alex pulled her hair out of the ponytail. “Is there a shop nearby? My toothbrush and shampoo are in my checked bags. I want to look presentable for your sister.”
• • •
Alex gave a squinty grin towards the sun. Its warmth, paired with the post-shower scent of drying pavement along Broadway Market, added a spring to her step, last seen at Paddington Tube station. The two-storey shops hugging the street made her feel like she was strolling through one of her favourite British movies like Love Actually, or Pride.
Her stomach cooed blissfully as she wolfed down a Time Out chocolate bar and a small packet of Cadbury chocolate buttons. The candy bars from the States couldn’t compete with the creamy silkiness of British chocolate. One of the best parts of moving to the UK—indulging her chocoholic tendencies whenever a craving hit, instead of relying on sporadic care packages mailed by her dad.
Birds chattered their bliss from lampposts while a grey squirrel frolicked across the pavement, happy for the sun’s return. Locals popping out of shop doorways looked up at the blue sky and its cotton ball clouds, and grinned. Alex swung her bags of toiletries and groceries, absorbed in her new neighbourhood.
Along the curb, a black cab swerved, its front wheel plunging into a pothole brimming with grimy water. A surge of dirty muck rained over the sidewalk—and Alex, baptizing her with sludge.
“Eeeeewwww!”
Her eyes stung. The cold gasoline and mud mixture oozed through the fibres of the sweatshirt’s right side, its chill spreading downward in a gunky smear.
“Fuck!” Alex stomped the ground as her gaze followed the taxi. It merrily chugged around the corner onto Westgate Street. Her throat constricted. Olivia can’t see this.
Alex’s shoes slapped along the sidewalk, the bulging plastic bags of cereal boxes, English muffins, and bottles attacking her legs with each stride. She leaped up the stairs two at a time, cursing her decision to accept Tom’s help. If only she’d followed her gut…
She stuck her key into 2B’s lock, but the door drifted open. Raised voices roared from the kitchen. One voice belonged to Tom, the other an unseen female. Alex tiptoed inside.
“You’re twenty-four-years-old and still can’t follow the simplest of instructions.” The woman’s accent sounded like actress Elizabeth Hurley’s—sultry and posh. Alex bit her lip and nudged the door closed.
“You’ve done a piss-poor job. This place is exactly the same as when I left at seven: a pigsty. I’m sick of your excuses.”
The voice barely paused for air.
“So tell me. Who was it this time? That jogging nutritionist from the Isle of Wight? Not the barista around the corner, again? It’s busier than Piccadilly Circus in there. The revolving door to your bedroom has got to stop—”
Tom snapped back. “Why do you care? I don’t pry into your sex life. Maybe I should. Is Harry working too much at Bespoke, sister dear? Too many hours in the company of hot cocktail girls?”
Alex stared down at the caked mud and gulped, her temples damp and tingly. Damn. Olivia.
“Shut up, Tom. You’re such an arse.”
The click-clack of high heels grew louder and closer. Alex’s blood chilled. She turned to her left, slipping down the hall, but her sensitive nose tickled with a waft of sweet raspberry and peonies.
Tom’s twenty-two-year-old sister stopped mid-stride on the edge of the lounge, immaculate in a stunning emerald green knee-length dress that highlighted her coltish legs and slim waist, her dark hair, corralled in a sleek, low ponytail. A square amethyst, large enough to feed a family of five for half a decade, glittered on her right hand, its brilliance dancing in the light when she stabbed the air in Alex’s direction.
“And who the hell are you?” Her green eyes narrowed. Tom crept up behind her, his hand stroking his chin stubble.
Alex gasped, knocked senseless by a strange combo of fright and Olivia’s beauty—the kind of beauty that always gets its way. She wasn’t sure whether to flee or stand her ground.
Olivia curled her lip and stormed at Alex. “Tom, it’s bad enough that you bring your conquests back here, but to then dress them in my clothes…”
