Read Build a Man for Free Online Page B

pounds of surgery, the life service is
complimentary.”
    “Give me some
time to think about it,” Jeremy says. “I hear what you’re saying
about the past and all. It’s just, well, I’m quite a private
person. I’m not sure I’m ready to start sharing it, with wine or
without.”
    My heart starts
beating faster. How much time will he need? The first column is due
in two days. And what if he doesn’t agree? “Don’t worry. I’ll be
gentle with you.” For some reason, my cheeks heat up.
    “You seem too
nice to be otherwise.” Jeremy’s face is reddening, too.
    “Why don’t we
meet back here tomorrow, around six-thirty? You can tell me then.”
That won’t give me much time to pull together the article, but I’ll
work at the speed of light if I have to. I grab my wine glass and
drain it, trying to wash away the tension. I feel like I’m about to
keel over from the stress of it all.
    “Sure, okay.”
Jeremy tilts his head to the side. “Where are you from,
anyway?”
    If I had a
dollar for everyone who’s asked me that, I’d be a rich woman.
    “Maine. It’s
right across the Atlantic Ocean, just up the coast from Boston.” I
launch into my standard answer because few Brits ever seem to have
heard of my home state. I’m not surprised – there’s not a lot going
on there.
    Jeremy nods. “I
know where it is. I haven’t been, but I imagine it’s beautiful
countryside.”
    Images of trees
and lakes flash through my head and for a split second, I feel
homesick. Until I remember how I was about to gnaw off my arm with
boredom.
    “So you’re a
life advisor and a receptionist? Busy lady.”
    I wave a hand.
“Oh, receptionist. Well, it’s a great way to assess clients right
from the get-go, you know? You can learn a lot from how people
carry themselves when they first walk in. Plus, since our advisory
service is only for select clients at the moment, the receptionist
position helps top up my salary.”
    “I hope Dr
Lycett knows how lucky he is to have you,” Jeremy says.
    “Um, yeah, he
does.” I think. I hope, anyway. For some reason, I don’t feel right
telling him Peter’s my boyfriend.
    “Good. He seems
a decent bloke. Really professional; thorough.” Jeremy gets to his
feet, laughing as he looks down at the red splotches decorating the
front of his jeans.
    “I’m so sorry,”
I say again. “If you want, I’ll pay for dry cleaning.”
    “Dry cleaning?
For jeans?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. I kind of thought it was
crazy, too, but Peter gets all his jeans done, so I figured it must
be a London thing. Oh God, I must remember to pick up the dry
cleaning tonight! Thank goodness they’re open twenty-four hours, a
fact that always makes me laugh. Who’s going to need a freshly
laundered shirt at three in the morning? I love that some shops
stay open around the clock here, though. In Harris, you’d be lucky
to see a car on the road past ten.
    “No, don’t
worry. I’m good,” Jeremy says. “So I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    “See you.” I
focus on his back as he leaves, sending ‘Do it! Do it!’ thoughts
into his head with all my might. He has to agree – how on
earth am I going to get access to his life if he doesn’t?
    “Miss? Anything
else?” A waiter hovers over me.
    “No,” I say,
standing. All I really need is to get Jeremy signed up. If he says
no tomorrow . . . I’ll come up with something. Somehow.
    I push through
the narrow tables and head into the street toward the dry
cleaner’s. It’s quiet and dark now, and a fine drizzle is drifting
through the air. I scrabble in my pocket for the dry cleaning
ticket, then go inside and collect Peter’s tie and shirts. Nothin’
says lovin’ like starched collars.
    When I get
home, the flat is silent. I peel off my damp clothes, throw on the
silk pyjamas Peter bought me (even though he got them a size too
small and the inseam likes to wiggle into places where the sun
don’t shine) then head out to the lounge.