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69. Tea

Slowly, he came to, and his eyes blinked open. His neck felt sore from the position he’d been in. Instinctively, he reached for the back of his neck, as he flexed his head.

Was that Sofia?

James sat up abruptly.

That was definitely Sofia, on the TV, in Cannes. How? When? Why?

“Bloody hell!” He sprang to his feet.

Just a short nap and she’d already run back to him?

After everything?

He quickly grabbed his phone and dialed Sofia’s line…

Voicemail.

He tried again.

Same thing.

“Fvck!” He tossed the phone onto the sofa, and paced, rubbing his temples, while trying to think of something.

His phone began to ring, and he rushed to pick it up.

'Scumbag Richards,' it read.

He sighed disappointedly, and turned on plane mode-

-almost.

As his finger hovered over the screen, something began to form in his mind, and his sigh turned into the wryest of smiles.

“Hello, David,” he said, in a voice that would have made Heath Ledger proud.

***

“The only reason why a woman would call he
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