no reason

Rob and I had met for lunch at Riggo’s at twelve regularly, twice a week more often than not over the last seven years. There was nothing strange about the way he called, nothing unusual about the way he spoke. I tried to tell myself as I sat staring out the window of my office into the grey winter morning that I had no reason to think Rob knew what I had done.

Lord Malinov, Flowers of Malinov

About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
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