AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Not on these carpets; they’re so plush they’d soundproof a running bull.
“What’s inside?” I ask, gaze returning to the box.
He goes to the kitchen drawer and retrieves a knife, then passes it to me. “Just a few little things to make you more comfortable here.”
I hesitate.
“Go on,” he prompts.
I slit the box open. Inside are various parcels, which I start to open. The biggest is a Mantra Marble yoga mat. Holy shit. I always window-shop at Mantra but can never bring myself to pay the exorbitant prices they charge.
“Thank you,” I say. “How did you know?”
“Your body,” he replies. “You don’t get a body like that unless you’re serious about yoga.”
“Or pilates,” I say.
“Nah, you’re a yoga type. Can see it from a mile away. Also, only hippies attend protests like that.”
Rude. “Not all yogis are hippies,” I scold.
“Sure.” What he means is, Let’s not argue.
Apart from loving the actual yoga mat—it’s stunning—I also love the fact that I won’t have to get to my flat before the lesson. I won’t have to rush. I have the feeling he knew that when he ordered it, because the next parcel contains leggings and tops, and the next some casual clothes. Denim, blouses, and a short black dress. There’s also lingerie in the perfect size. Moisturizer, deodorant, tampons.
I laugh. “You’re good. You’re really good.”
An envelope stops me in my tracks. It’s loaded with cash.
I frown at Alistair. “What’s this?”
Not only is the envelope stuffed, it’s stuffed with £100 notes. My mouth hangs open.
“Ah,” he says. “I noticed you didn’t have any cash on you.”
“So?”
He shrugs. “So … I got you some.”
“Is this … transactional?” I don’t know how else to put it. Was he paying me for my … company?
Alistair chuckles. “Transactional? You mean am I paying you for being my secret mistress? No. Not my style.”
Of course, Alistair is so hot he’ll never have to pay for sex.
“Don’t read too much into it,” he says. “I like looking after you. I want you to have money when you need it.”
My eyes are still bulging when he peers into the box.
“There’s one last thing in there,” he notes.
It’s my phone, but it’s paired with a brand-new one.
“All your personal data is on the new one,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to transfer anything.”
“It’s too much,” I say.
“Have you seen your old phone?” he asks. His tone is light. This is not a big deal for him, so why make it one?
