Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 115737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
He hangs up, and I stand in the doorway silently while he fastens the buttons of his shirt, my mind racing. He didn’t even react to her rant. There was nothing in him. No emotion whatsoever. My eyes drop to my feet, scanning the carpet, my questions growing. I can’t conclude anything except one thing, and it’s a conclusion that frightens me because it could fuck with my immoral conscience even more.
I hate his wife.
How she spoke to him just then, I hate her for it. But I have no right to hate her. I’ve screwed her husband. Twice.
Once Jack’s sorted himself out, he stands quietly for a moment, watching me from across the room. My heart is begging him not to go. But my head is throwing him out and telling him to leave me alone. ‘See me tomorrow,’ he says, not as a question, more as a statement.
I just look at him, unable and unwilling to reply. What I want to do so desperately is ask all about his marriage, but that is a place I know I shouldn’t venture. It’s laughable. It’s not as if I’m not dancing on dangerous ground already. Yet I fear that whatever I learn from Jack will just be another reason that I can use as a weapon to justify my actions. Knowing things were rocky before I came along isn’t beneficial. It’ll just help blanket my reasoning. It’s fucking backwards. I can’t win here. So I do the wisest thing and keep my mouth shut. The less I know the better.
‘Annie,’ he whispers. ‘Answer me.’
I drop my gaze to the floor, feeling my eyes flood with infuriating tears. ‘It didn’t sound like a question,’ I retort softly. I need him to leave, because I don’t want him to see me break down again. I’m on the edge, my body beginning to tremble with the restraint it’s taking to hold it together.
When I hear his steps coming near, I close my eyes and breathe strength into myself. His soft touch meets my cheek and strokes delicately for a few seconds before he dips and kisses my forehead. Then he turns and walks out.
And I crumple to the floor and sob like I’ve never sobbed before.
Because he said that if the Fates ever led me to him again, he wouldn’t let me go.
And he just did.
To go and meet his wife.
Chapter 11
How can you become so attached to something with such limited contact? The answer is easy and unbearable all at once. I feel like Jack was made especially for me, and the fact that I can’t have him is cruel. Plain cruel. He is forbidden. I shouldn’t have had him the first time. I definitely shouldn’t have had him the second time. And I’m so mad with myself. I may have been misled in that bar, I may have given in to his potency, but I knew full well what I was getting myself into last night. It’s unforgivable.
I lay in my bed mentally beating myself up all over again, the guilt returning tenfold. I tried not to allow myself to wonder if his lack of any fight on the phone with her was because of guilt. I tried not to imagine him being so subservient to her and accepting her rant, even if he deserves it. But Stephanie doesn’t know about me. So what is she yelling at him for? Simply being late for dinner?
I didn’t sleep a wink, my mind not shutting down, but I did reach one solid conclusion. This has to end now. Whether their marriage is struggling is of no consequence. I have no place in their lives. Their problems are not my problems, and I shouldn’t make them mine.
I’m better than this.
By 6 a.m., I’ve given up on sleep, so I put myself in the shower and ready myself for a long day at work. After getting my car sorted out with a local garage, I stop off for a large cappuccino and drink it while I make a few calls and e-mail the structural engineer to arrange a meeting to discuss the roof issue. He comes back to me quickly saying he’s free at two for half an hour. I have no choice but to take the slot and rearrange my diary. This can’t wait until next week.
I’m chewing on the end of my pen an hour later, working out some numbers, when my mobile dings the arrival of an e-mail. I snatch it up while jotting something down and glance at the screen. His name glares up at me, getting the usual expected reaction from my heart. Then the relentless flashbacks commence too, except now there are more scenes, more feelings, more images. More words to hang onto. I read the first line of his e-mail and quickly establish that it’s in no way work-related. ‘Damn you, Jack.’ I stop reading and delete it. We’ve crossed the line twice. It can’t happen again.