Total pages in book: 221
Estimated words: 213317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1067(@200wpm)___ 853(@250wpm)___ 711(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 213317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1067(@200wpm)___ 853(@250wpm)___ 711(@300wpm)
His eyes are still so scathing.
“Don’t you think you should have asked me that before you made a fucking joke of it?”
I feel like such a fool.
I can’t say sorry again, so I hang my head in shame until he speaks.
He calms down a little, regaining his composure.
“They’re from my mother,” he tells me. “They’re the only things the bitch ever really got for me. She gave me one every weekend whenever I’d been a good little boy. They cost ten pence each from the local store. They were the most important things that I had.”
I feel like such an utter piece of shit. I choke on my tears.
“My God, Ant. I’m sorry.”
I can’t stop myself crying. I feel too ashamed and bloody stupid, like I should have known better. He was a hurt little boy who lost his mother. I should have known better than to make a dumbass joke about those toys.
My upset shifts his expression in a heartbeat and he’s down on his knees in front of me, taking hold of my hands.
“It’s ok, Cass. It’s me who should be sorry.”
I shake my head, because it’s not true.
“Baby, listen, it’s not your fault,” he says, and his voice is so soft and so loving that it makes me feel even worse.
“I’m sorry…” I say again, but he gives me a shh, reaching up to wipe a tear from my cheek.
“It just caught me off guard, that’s all. You thought it was funny, because it would be funny. The hang up is all on me.”
“I should’ve realised.”
“No, princess. You shouldn’t.” He smiles. “They are funny little guys, aren’t they? I used to sit with them on my fingers for hours. I can even tell you their names, if you like?”
Hearing their names would make me feel sick right now. My stomach is already churning too bad. There’s no way I’d even dream about asking about the scribbled-on bank note after this. Hell only knows what memory that has attached to it. I’ve been such an insensitive bitch.
I give him the biggest hug I can, sobbing into his neck as I try to get my senses together. He holds me right back, soothing me like he’s the one who’s been the dickhead, when he hasn’t. The blame is all on me.
“At least you’ve met the monsters now.” He manages a laugh. “One of them’s called Rudolph. The one with the red nose. One of them’s called poop butt. He looks like he’s come from a slime factory.”
I’m laughing along with him now, even through the tears, and that seems to reassure him.
“I love you,” I say to him. “I’ll never be such an insensitive cow again, I swear.”
“You weren’t an insensitive cow, Cass. I was a hypersensitive prick.”
I know he’s not going to let me take the blame, not when he’s being so loving, so I settle for fifty-fifty, smiling as he takes a seat next to me on the bed.
“Ok, then,” I offer. “A little bit of insensitivity meets a little bit of hypersensitivity. We’re only human after all, aren’t we?”
He holds me in his arms so tight.
“Nah, baby, you’re not human. You’re a goddamn goddess to me.”
Ant messages all day, urging me to leave work early with a let’s go, Bucklebury here we come, and Janie tells me to go, go, go, along with him, but I don’t want to bail out on our clients.
Mr Perfect has already loaded my case in the boot along with his when I get home. The plush giraffe does fit in the back seat, with his head just shy of the roof. Ant laughs as I buckle up the gift-wrapped passenger along for the ride, with a blanket tossed over it to hide him from his future owner.
I’ve told Ant before how crazy about giraffes Harry is, but he asks about it with more vigour as we hit the motorway.
“Where do you think his giraffe fixation comes from? Has he ever seen one?”
“He’s been in love with them since he first saw a cartoon version on one of his favourite TV shows. He asked Sarah if they are a cross between an ostrich and a horse.”
“An ostrich and a horse?” Ant smirks. “I can see his logic.”
“Sarah and Dave took him to a safari park once to meet one in person and it dipped its head down to the car window to take some treats from his hand.”
“That must have been quite something for him.”
“Yeah, it was. He has pictures on his wall from that day, and in every single one of them he’s grinning like a superstar.”
“I can’t wait to see his face when he sees his present.”
“Me too.”
Ant’s busy all the way on the drive, asking questions about the people he’s going to meet. I’ve told him about them plenty of times, but this time his quizzing feels different. I imagine this is the side of Ant that enters business meetings with new clients after spending weeks researching them. The more I get to know him, the more I understand why he’s such a massive player in investment banking. It explains his house, and his lifestyle, and the incredible gifts he gives me.