Glancing at my alarm clock, I realized feverishly I was late to the press conference Mr. Darcy assigned me to cover at the town hall this morning.
“Great, it’s my first shot writing for a city newspaper and I’m late,” I muttered to myself.
After writing novellas and novels, I wanted to give print journalism a shot. But, continuously cracking at that glass ceiling will be harder, if I can’t manage to make it to work on time. I fumbled into my shower, at break neck speed, only to meet a lukewarm and tepid water flow. Next on my to-do list, after chipping at the glass ceiling at work, is to get the most affordable plumber to work on my pipes that managed to freeze and unfreeze within seconds. I had to make do with the tiny drops of water drizzling upon me.
Somehow managing to avoid bumping my leg on the hope chest at the end of my poster bed (Why did I have one anyway?), I opened the french doors to my walk-in closet, grabbed a maroon wrapped dress, some black pumps, and dressed quickly. With a spritz of Chanel No. 5, I galloped to the kitchen for a quick swig of orange juice and a bite of a corn muffin.
I glanced at my watch again. Not bad. I may have over-dramatized my lateness. I had twenty minutes to at least get to the town hall without stepping on any toes. I grabbed my car keys off my kitchen island and headed towards the garage door. As I shut the door and approached my grey Mercedes. Since I had an automatic key, what I would have noticed right way eclipsed my eyes.
I got into the car and placed my tote bag in the right passenger seat. I plugged in my smart phone since I knew I had no outside option to charge it in the square. I pulled the seat belt over me with a quick tug and click.
As I adjusted my front mirror, I screamed irritatingly, “You have to be kidding me!”
My ex-husband, Dr. Timothy Carlton somehow managed to sneak into my car and sleep. Well, of course, he wasn’t sleeping now with the timber of my incessant screams. Dressed in a dark blue Belstaff Milford coat, black dress pants, and a finely tailored crisp aubergine shirt that was slightly disheveled with the top three buttons undone that hugged every pectoral muscle, he awoke, without a beat, and yawned.
“Oh, hello, love.” He mumbled. Yawning again and stretching his long arms out, so that one could “accidentally” tap my right shoulder, he smirked and purred, “Crazy, isn’t it?”
Why is he here in my car?
How did he get in my car?
But, at the moment, foolishly I thought, for the love of St. Peter, why did he have to wear that shirt?
As I turned around to give what I thought would be a look of slight disgust.
He showered me with a smug look that informed me of his reason for wearing it.
To be continued…