Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
When he does, he doesn’t look like he has any more of a clue what I’ve given him. “It’s a handprint on one and a footprint on the other,” I say.
“Of Guinevere?” he asks, turning them over to see what’s on the back. I wrote today’s date on them.
“No, those are my hand and feet prints, Dax. I thought you might like to put them in your study.”
He ignores me and still looks confused. “But what for?”
I sigh. “A Christmas decoration. You can put them on the tree. I know it’s a bit early, but who doesn’t like a sentimental Christmas ornament?” Looking at Dax’s expression, I’m pretty sure I’ve found the one person on earth who wouldn’t be moved by his daughter’s hand-and-footprint on the Christmas tree.
“Right,” he says, and puts them to the side. He opens the backgammon set and I move forward, taking in the red and cream worn leather. It’s a beautiful set. It reminds me of the one I learned on as a child—my grandfather’s, who left it to my father. I couldn’t find it in my parents’ possessions when I left the house. I wonder if my uncle ever uses it.
I pick up one of the cream counters and turn it round in my hand. It has a lovely weight to it. “Is it stone?” I ask.
He shrugs.
I watch, turning the counter over and over, pretending I don’t notice how quickly his fingers move, setting out the counters. Then he retraces his steps, lining up the counters so they’re straight and even, exactly central on the points.
He looks at me. “Ready?”
I take the cream dice from the leather-lined pocket and throw one. He throws one of the red dice he’s holding.
He throws a five. Mine comes up as a six. It’s my favorite move to start a game. I take my counter farthest from home and move it across the board.
Dax glances up at me and gives me a small nod. It’s an acknowledgement that he knows I can play, since it’s likely the same move he would have made. Warmth gathers in my chest. I get the feeling Dax’s good impression is hard won.
I pick up my die at the same time he does and our fingers brush together.
I drop my dice to the table like they’re on fire and pretend I didn’t shiver when he touched me.
He rolls a five and a two. He makes the safe, standard move, and as he removes his dice, he glances up at me like he’s waiting for me to acknowledge that he knows what he’s doing too.
“Safe,” I say.
He shrugs.
I would have played the same exact move.
We continue the game in silence. Dax has long abandoned his toast and sits back in his chair, his arms folded against the naked chest I’m definitely not looking at. I use my milk as a shield between us and take consistent, small sips to punctuate his turns.
A few moves later, he leaves a counter open and when I throw my dice, our eyes lock and he smirks. He knows I can take him if I want to.
I do, and when I scoop up my dice, I glance at him to see if he’s a sore loser. His face only shows concentration.
He throws again, and manages to get his counter back into play.
In the end, I beat him.
“You play well,” he says.
“Thanks. I’ve had a lot of practice, although it’s been a couple of years.”
He doesn’t say anything. It’s my cue to leave. “I should call my sister.”
“Oh, it’s like that is it? One game and if you’re winning, you’re out?”
A small smile curls around my lip. “We both have to be up early.”
He nods and doesn’t try to convince me to stay. Am I being rude? Should I play him again? “You don’t have to work?”
He sighs. “I’m too tired to concentrate.”
I laugh. “Oh, that must be the reason you didn’t win.” I’m smiling as I speak, but I’m also giving him salve for his ego.
“Not at all. You play well.” It’s the response of a confident man. It’s just a game of backgammon, but there are plenty of men whose egos would have been bruised about losing. I gave him a plausible excuse but he didn’t take it. I like him better for it.
“Let’s do the best of three,” I say. “That gives you a chance to win back your dignity.”
He lets out a half-laugh. “Wow. I didn’t realize my dignity was at stake.”
I shrug and wonder if I’ve been unprofessional. I don’t know if it’s because he’s not married, or he’s a similar age to me, or maybe because this flat is so small, but the line I usually see so clearly between me and my boss is blurry. I forget myself around him.
This time, I set up the board. I look up when I’m finished and he’s looking at me. Not at the counters. Not at his toast. He’s looking at me, and he doesn’t look away.