Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
My phone rings, and I dive on it. “Sam,” I breathe, my face screwing up in dread. Please tell me they’ve found her.
“She’s fine,” he says, and my hand freezes on my shirt. “She answered one of Kate’s messages, so she’s alive.”
“What?”
“Listen, my man, don’t lose your shit, but Kate mentioned something about Ava not seeing you again.”
I stand stock-still. “What?”
“I said don’t lose your shit.”
“I’m not losing my shit.”
“You sure?”
The burning sensation starts in my toes and spreads through my body like wildfire. “I’m not losing my shit,” I grate, looking up at John, who’s silently observing me.
Losing my shit.
I’ve been going out of my mind with worry, and she really is just avoiding me? Why?
“Jesse?” Sam asks quietly. Concerned. “Be cool.”
“Be fucking cool?” I bellow, catching John’s flinch in my peripheral vision. “I’ve been going fucking crazy.” I slam my phone down and fight my way into my clothes, barging past John.
“Don’t crowd her,” he calls after me.
“Fuck off!”
I throw myself in my car and roar off down the driveway, splitting my attention between the road and my phone, searching for the number for Rococo Union’s office.
I dial and bark my order when a woman answers. “I want to talk to Ava.”
“Yes, sir. Who’s calling?”
“It’s private.”
“Oh. Okay, just a moment, please.” The line goes quiet, and I scowl at the road. If she dares comes back and says—
“I’m sorry, sir. Ava is out of the offi—”
“Put her on the fucking phone,” I roar, punching my steering wheel, unable to control my temper. I’ve gone from worry to anxiety to worry to fear to worry to fury.
There’s a collection of bangs and cracks, no doubt the result of the poor woman dropping the phone in shock. “I . . . I . . . I’m . . . I’m . . . sor . . . sorry, sir—”
“Don’t be sorry, just put her on the phone.”
“Sir, please . . . I . . . I assure you . . . she’s . . . she’s not here.”
My God, that woman will be the death of me. “Fine,” I yell, smashing my finger repeatedly on the button to end the call. “Have it your way, Ava,” I mutter, putting my foot down.
I pull up outside her office, double park, and march to the door, trying to wrestle myself into shape. I push my way in, giving no thought to what I will say and how I will handle this. I scan the space, seeing a desk up ahead, the chair empty. But where is she?
“Can I help you, sir?” a lady at the first desk asks.
“Where’s Ava?” I growl, and she blanches, blinking rapidly. She looks brittle, but I’ll be damned if I can get a hold of myself and this burning rage. The woman, I’m assuming the same lady I bellowed at on the phone, stares at me blankly, mute. “Where?” I yell.
“She left a while ago, sir.”
I stalk back out, getting in my car and wheel-spinning down the street, calling Ava repeatedly. And with each one of my calls she ignores, my anger amplifies. She doesn’t get to do this again. I send her a string of messages, and each time I click send, I think of something else to add.
I have been going out of my fucking mind.
* * *
Thinking unthinkable things.
* * *
I thought something terrible had happened!
* * *
But no. You’ve just got cold feet again?
* * *
No. You don’t get to do this again. I won’t let you, and you’d better get used to that and start rethinking how you handle what’s happening between us.
Not surprisingly, she doesn’t respond, and also not surprisingly, that only serves to piss me off even more. I screech up outside her flat and dial again as I stalk toward her front door.
“Hello.”
I stop in the middle of the road, caught off guard. She answered? “Ava?”
“Jesse,” she says, sounding rather calm. That’s nice. Here I am, hanging off the edge of a fucking cliff, and she’s all composed. Good for her. For fuck’s sake. “I can’t see you again,” she says nonchalantly.
Oh no. Oh, no, no, no. “No,” I say, trying to cool the burn inside. “Ava, listen to me—”
She hangs up. She fucking hangs up, and it’s infuriating for more than one reason. Because she’s scared. She’s scared to talk to me, to see me, because if she does, she won’t be able to deny our perfection.
I reach her front door and smash my fist into it. “Ava,” I shout, hammering at the wood. “Ava!” I reverse my steps and look up at the window, dialing her again. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.” My hand goes into my hair, pulling at the mess of blond. It goes to voicemail, and I stare at my phone in astonishment. “Ava! Answer the fucking door!” Why is she doing this? It’s exhausting. Enraging. Confusing.