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)
“Well,” he muses, adding milk and stirring, “what I would like to do as soon as the spitfire redhead is back from test driving her new wheels is take her to The Manor and play with her.”
Oh, the van. I forgot about that in the midst of my brief panic attack.
Sam collects his cup and takes a sip, looking at me over the rim. “But I can’t do that, can I?”
My eyes narrow to slits. “You’re assuming she’d be fine with it.”
“I have a feeling in my bones.”
“No, you don’t. You have a feeling in your cock.”
“Same thing. So how are you going to break it to her?”
Not a fucking clue. “I’ll find a way.” I hope.
He nods, thoughtful as he watches me. “Well, you ne—”
“Thank you!” Kate screeches, flinging herself into my arms. I just manage to catch her. “She’s perfect.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Let go of him,” he grumbles. “He’s got somewhere he needs to be.” His head tilts, his eyes telling me to start confessing some truths.
* * *
Luigi’s place is the kind of restaurant London is short of. Traditional, authentic, and cozy. It’s been here forever and will be here forevermore. The moment he spots me, his face lights up, but I can see the questions in his eyes when he notices Ava’s hand in mine. In all the times I’ve eaten here, I’ve never been with a woman. Not even Sarah. It’s always with the boys.
He weaves through the tables and greets me in his usually happy way, shaking my hand.
“Luigi, good to see you too.”
“Come, come.” He guides us to a table for two at the back, and I make the introductions, killing his curiosity. “Ah, a beautiful name for a beautiful lady, yes?” he says, and I mentally agree as we take our seats. “What would Sir Jesse like?”
I’d like to eat fast and leave. “May I?” I ask Ava, reaching for my gentlemanly manners.
“You usually do,” she quips sarcastically, and I throw her a playful, warning look. Yes, I do, and I’m glad she accepts that.
“Okay, Luigi,” I say, ready to reel off our order fast, hoping he’ll take it fast, have it cooked fast, served fast, and cleared fast once we’re done. My dick is aching like fuck. “We’ll have two of the fettuccine, with yellow squash, parmesan, and lemon cream sauce, a bottle of the Famiglia Anselma Barolo 2000, and some water.” It all rolls off my tongue automatically, and I frown to myself as Luigi writes it down. Wine? I don’t drink anymore.
“Yes, yes, Sir Jesse.”
I’m about to cancel the wine but Luigi backs away, and I quickly reason with my intention. She can have a glass. She’ll think it’s odd if I don’t order wine. Besides, she’s with me.
“Thank you, Luigi.”
Ava gazes around the space as I admire her across the table. “You come here often?” she says, and I crack a smile.
“Are you trying to chat me up?”
“Of course.”
She eyes me as I shuffle in my seat. She knows what’s going on down below. Talk. “Mario, the head barman at The Manor, insisted I try it, so I did. Luigi’s his brother.”
“Luigi and Mario?” She laughs, and I watch, happy but stumped. “I’m sorry, that really tickled me.”
“I can see that.” I accept the drinks when Luigi returns, filling Ava’s glass halfway and pouring some water into my own. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten Italian without my favorite wine, and oddly, I’m not the least bit bothered.
Ava looks from her wine to the water. “You didn’t get a whole bottle for me? Are you not having any?”
Think fast, Ward. “No. I’m driving.”
“And I’m allowed?” she asks, an ironic smile on her face. A glass, yes. She can forget it if she thinks she’s sinking the whole bottle.
“You may.”
She dives in, and I watch as she takes that first sip. “You bought Kate a van.”
I rest back in my chair, gauging her reaction. “I did.” I can see she’s got a pile of questions locked, loaded, and ready to fire. I’m beginning to think this was a bad idea for more reasons than delaying getting my hands all over her.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you being tossed around in the back of that jalopy.”
She seems to accept my reasoning, which is good. Yet, I should stop and ask myself what lengths I’ll go to in order to maintain the calm inside I’m coming to depend on and, worryingly, what only she can supply. I seem dead set on eliminating all things that could tip me over the edge of the cliff I’ve recently found myself on. It’s paramount. Impossible?
“I want to know how old you are.”
“Twenty-eight,” I say, ignoring my conscience. Holding back is natural, and if it comes naturally, I’m going with it. “Tell me about your family,” I say, and she looks at me in disbelief.