Eighty Days Amber Read Online Free PDF Page A

kitchen and the counter and stared at him, watching as he held his croissant in his left hand and dipped it into the milky foam and ground chocolate that decorated his coffee, leaving behind bits of feathery pastry that floated away and stuck to the sides of the cup.
    It was hot in the small shop, warm from the ovens, and soon he pulled his sweatshirt over his head, bringing his T-shirt up with it for a few moments before he shimmied it down again, revealing a tanned, muscled back and a glimpseof a tattoo that wound around his right side. His T-shirt was short sleeved and just tight enough to display taut arms with sinews that rippled as he lifted his cup to his mouth.
    He suddenly turned to face me.
    And I realised that I was holding my breath.

2
    Dancing in the Moonlight
    I didn’t see him again for a week, and then he came back, wearing a sharp anthracite-coloured business suit, this time with a companion. They sat in the same place by the window with their backs to me, Chey and his fat friend in the zipped-up cream jacket who ordered a second pastry and another cappuccino and stared at the line of my breasts as I served them to him.
    ‘Waitress,’ he said, snapping his fingers in the air, as though I would have trouble noticing him only a few feet away and they being the only customers in the store.
    As I brought his drink, his hand shot out to the sugar jar, right in line with the tray as I set it down on the bench, knocking his cup of coffee sideways and down the front of my white blouse. I yelped and leaped back as the hot liquid scalded my skin, barely managing to keep my cool and avoid cursing at the pair of them.
    The fat man picked up a napkin and moved forward to lunge at me and dab at my breasts, until Chey stood up and pulled him forcibly back onto his stool.
    ‘That’s enough,’ he said, and his companion had visibly wilted, all the bravado seeping out of him like air from a balloon.
    He had spoken in Russian.
    The next day a parcel was delivered to the store,couriered all the way over from Macy’s, with a note that simply read: Apologies. For your blouse .
    It was pure silk, with a fine lace collar, much more beautiful, and no doubt more expensive, than the functional one that I had stained. The French owner raised an eyebrow at me as I tucked the parcel next to my coat and handbag, and made no mention of sending it back. Chey’s friend had been rude, and I would accept this gift in return.
    A week later, I turned twenty, and he asked me out to dinner.
    ‘How did you know it was my birthday?’ I asked him when he came into the store that afternoon to check that I had received his package. My tone was accusatory. The last thing I needed was a stalker – particularly one with clumsy friends – even if he was handsome.
    ‘I didn’t,’ he replied, smiling. ‘Happy birthday. I hope that it fits, and is a fair replacement for the one my friend ruined.’
    ‘Oh. Yes, of course. It’s beautiful. Thank you. There was really no need . . .’
    ‘You’re very welcome,’ he replied.
    He was about to leave the store when my curiosity got the better of me and I asked him in my native tongue, ‘Are you Russian?’
    The question fell between us like a stone, weightier than I had intended. I felt like a fool, and a nosy one at that. Prying was a quality that I disapproved of in others.
    ‘No, I’m not,’ he replied in English. ‘I speak just a few words. But only for work.’
    ‘That’s a shame,’ I replied. ‘Sometimes I am homesick for my own language.’
    He paused, as if mulling something over. I regrettedbeing so honest with a perfect stranger. I had no close friends in New York and I’d been starved of company for too long, and now I’d made a fool of myself in front of this man. The doorbell remained silent, no matter how hard I wished that another customer would enter the shop and save me from my embarrassment.
    ‘Can I take you to dinner, Luba?’ he asked after a long silence. He’d