He'll have to break all the rules to keep her, but first she has to break just one and let him in...
It's taken four years, but Anna Fray has finally put the past behind her. Mostly. She fills her days working in a bar and her nights watching bad ro...
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Throughout the week that passed, I tried to get on with life as it had been before, but at every turn Book Boy was there. He was relentless. He peppered every waking hour with questions, whether it was while I worked at the bar or when I relaxed at home. I'd tried to resist at first, but the effort it took to ignore his inquisition soon outweighed the irritation of having to answer. In the past week, I'd spoken more about myself than I had in the past four years, which was why it didn't surprise me when he exited his front door at the same time as I left mine, and fell in step beside me.
"Morning," he said cheerfully as he shoved his hands in his coat pockets. Today he was in a thin leather jacket, barely thick enough to keep the wintery chill at bay. He never seemed to be dressed for the weather.
I took his brief moment of silence as an opportunity to finally ask some questions of my own. Despite weeks of conversation, he was still a stranger to me.
"How come you moved here?"
He didn't stutter at my abrupt tone.
"Work."
"What do you do?"
After a short pause he smirked and said, "freelance."
"Like a writer?" I asked as I thought of the black book he always carried around. The blank one I hadn't been able to forget about. It was currently stuffed in his back pocket, bobbing side to side as he walked.
"Yes, like a writer."
"Why did you move to George's Hill?"
"Why not?" He tilted his head slightly.
"Well, you're not the usual resident. People like you live in Fairfield or Ilford or that seaside place with all the bunting and weekend markets."
I thought of the regal mansions that lined the streets of Fairfield and the Edwardian houses of Ilford. They were built for people with money decades ago, and they'd kept their purpose to this day.
"People like me." He flashed a crooked smile as he glanced down at me, the piercing blue all the more vivid against his dark hair and pale skin.
"Where do people like you usually live?" he asked with intent.
"George's hill."
"No, I don't think so," he countered without skipping a beat. "You live there now, but you don't fit there."
"So, what, we talk a handful of times and now you think you know me?" I could hear the hypocrisy in my voice, but I didn't care.
"I'm getting there," he said with a knowing smile. Unapologetically smug.
"The only thing people know about me is that I'm difficult, mean, scary," I drawled, bitterness dripping from my voice. The images of people like the cashier from the supermarket flashed through my memory. Each one looking at me like one glance could turn them to stone, or one touch would taint them somehow.
