Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“Shut up, Chance. I don’t need you to tell me what I already know. Isn’t your job to protect and silently observe?”
Chance merely lifted a brow at that slur but shifted his broad shoulders and sarcastically waved his hand at the door.
“Have at it, sir.”
Trystan gritted his teeth at the sardonic emphasis on the honorific. Since Chance had taken to calling him Trystan or just mate, the deferential sir was not in the slightest bit respectful, and they both knew it.
Trystan would take exception to the man’s familiarity if he didn’t like him so much. He’d enjoyed Chance’s company during the punishing press tour. Quinn was as exhausted as Trystan and their long-term friendship had taught them that when they were both tired, it was best to avoid each other to prevent petty arguments. And, while Trystan was fond of Bee, her esoteric tastes meant that they had little in common outside of work.
Chance, with his irreverent sense of humor and laid-back nature, was easy to be around. And since Trystan had to spend so much time in the man’s company, it helped that they got along.
Trystan eyed the door again, before throwing back his shoulders and lifting his closed fist to knock.
Afterward he dropped his hand and tugged at his shirt self-consciously, straightening his cuffs, smoothing his palm over the cool fabric covering his chest. Seconds passed without any sound from inside. Trystan ran a nervous hand over his hair before trying again, knocking a little harder this time.
They heard the muffled grumbling of a woman approaching the door and Trystan’s breathing stalled and his heart sped up when the key turned in the lock and the door swung inward.
The woman glowering up at them, wearing a robe, with a towel wrapped around her hair, was decidedly not Iris.
“What?” She snapped, before her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “Oh. Wow. Hey… Trystan Abbott. This is—how’s it hanging, man?”
She held up her fist and Trystan hesitated for a second before pounding it awkwardly.
“Is Iris home?” he asked, feeling like a child calling at his friend’s house and asking if they could come out and play.
“Iris? No. She’s not. She left early this morning. Said something about going to her parents’ place. Why don’t you try there? So this is it, huh? You’re finally grand-gesturing?”
“What?” Trystan asked, wanting to get the hell out of here now that he knew Iris wasn’t home, but not wanting to be rude to her flatmate. He was trying to mend fences here. Alienating her friends wouldn’t be the way to do so.
“You know? Like at the end of every romcom when the guy—or girl—runs barefoot through the city, to the airport, bus station, train station, wherever… and proclaims his, or her, or their, love to the object of their affection? I must say as grand gestures go, merely knocking on her front door is a bit of a letdown.”
“She’s at her parents’ place?”
“Yep. Nice to meet you, by the way, I’m Nora. I’m not into movies all that much, but yours aren’t that bad. Night of the Killer Wetās was bitching. My mates and I have a viewing every Halloween. We’re all allocated different roles and recite the lines while watching.”
It sounded fucking horrendous.
“Yeah? Maybe I’ll join in on the next one and read Adam’s lines,” he offered—Adam was his character in the movie—and cringed inwardly when her face lit up. Shit. Well, he might as well try and ingratiate himself to the people within Iris’s most intimate circle. It could all form part of his not-at-all-thought-through Grand Gesture.
“That’s cool, man. You’re not too bad. I hope she takes you back. Although… I can’t say I’m hopeful.”
Neither was Trystan. But after her last message, which he’d seen two who days after she’d posted it, he had to try.
“Iris, we need refills on the dolmades and spanakopita. They’re flying,” Jason Hughes called across the bustling kitchen. It was organized chaos. Everybody knew their place and worked together like a well-oiled machine. Iris, who hadn’t helped out since before leaving for South Africa, had simply slotted back into the flow of things, familiar with the routine and the rest of the kitchen and waitstaff.
She was getting stares and a few rushed questions about him though, but for the most part she’d simply kept her head down and got the work done. There was some tension between Robbie and his girlfriend, Chloe, or Khlo—with a K and a haich—a seventeen-year-old with thick smudged black eyeliner around her vibrant blue eyes and badly dyed straight, limp black hair. She was constantly chewing gum and popping bubbles, which was both annoying and unhygienic. Iris’s father had reprimanded the surly girl several times about the bubblegum, and each time she made a big, sulky show of spitting it out, but the discarded gum was always replaced with a fresh stick mere minutes later.