Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
I hope not. I don’t bother replying for her. I’m already done. I return to my apartment without looking back and shut the door, realizing this moment represents more than closing a chapter with Christine.
Tuesday is there with her beautiful smile and bright eyes that light up when she sees me. I go to her, scooping her into my arms and carrying her back to bed to have my wicked way with this angel. Tuesday isn’t just another chapter. She’s the whole damn book.
Like a present I wished for, I unwrap the towel from her body and spread her knees apart. She falls back under the weight of seduction, her breaths coming heavy in her chest and her eyes closing as she takes me in.
I kiss her inner thigh, then go lower, ready to devour her sweet little p—knock. Knock. Knock.
I bolt up and start getting out of bed. “What the fuck?”
Lifting on her elbows, Tuesday says, “Tell me about it.”
Now that makes me laugh. When she falls on the mattress with her arms spread wide, I say, “I’m sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“Swear?”
“Swear on my life.” I give her a wink and grab a towel from the floor again.
Just before I leave the room, she says, “It better not be another ex-girlfriend.”
“No worries then because I didn’t have girlfriends until you.”
“You’re not charming your way out of this, sir.”
Fuuuuuccckkk . . .
I’m about to turn around, but another rap on my door has me answering it. I look through the peephole—relieved that it’s not Christine again but also wondering who this guy thinks he is. “Who is it?”
“Delivery for Mr. Westcott from Private Eyes of New York.”
My heart drops into the pit of my stomach.
Is this the moment I lose the woman I love?
Before she has a chance to surprise me again, I open the door. The guy says, “Sign here.”
I sign on the electronic pad. Then he hands me an envelope. The printed label reads Westcott Case: Tuesday.
“Thanks.”
I close the door, sickness contaminating the happiness I felt not two minutes prior. There might not be anything in this file. It’s only been a few weeks. Logically though, I know that the PI wouldn’t have an envelope delivered in the middle of a snowstorm if he had nothing to report.
“Who is it?” she asks, her voice the sound of angels to my ears. Her eyes dip to the large envelope. “Wow, someone delivered that during the storm?”
“Yes, it’s important.” I run my hand through my hair and avert my eyes so she can’t see the lie I’m about to tell her. “Work stuff.”
“Oh. Okay. Do you need to work tonight?”
I walk down the hall, fully aware I’m an asshole for what I’m about to do. “No. Just putting this in my office.” I look back, and the trusting smile that sits so pretty on her face just about does me in. “I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”
She nods, and when she passes me, her gaze locks on mine. In that exchange, I know she sees right through me. I still close the door behind me and go straight to the closet. I shift an old box of yearbooks and photos to the floor and open a container filled with mementos my mom brought for me last year. Tucking the envelope inside, I put the lid on, then add the other box back to the pile.
My legs feel filled with concrete, making every step harder to take. I can’t lose her. I won’t. I just need a little more time to think before our world crashes down.
Just before I enter the bedroom, I put on a face of indifference. She sees me, and asks, “Everything all right?”
Diving onto the bed, I pull her into my arms under her fits of giggles and memorize the sound. I kiss her until her lips are swollen and her body begs for more. I want to make her feel so good. Make love to her. Create more love with her. Please her until she collapses from the pleasure.
That envelope ticks like a fucking time bomb in my head.
I love her too much. And I can’t lose her. Not ever.
28
Loch
Three weeks Later . . .
* * *
It would be wrong to ruin Christmas.
“The other one, please.”
The jewelry attendant closes one case and unlocks another. She pulls out a velvet tray of rings and places them before me. I stare at them—all brilliantly beautiful under the spotlight.
Is that how Tuesday and I are as well? Remove us from the light, and the dark reveals the cracks in our foundation?
I know I shouldn’t be looking at rings. Nothing about rushing into a marriage to convince her to stay is rational.
“Would you like to see any in particular?” the attendant asks. “These are our exclusive designs, and the diamonds are exquisite. She’d be lucky—”