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)
His eyes fall to Coral, his face twists more, and he carries on his way. “Fuck you,” he calls back, and my mouth falls open.
“I’ll revoke your membership!” I yell, shifting quickly to catch Coral when she slips farther down the chair, dozing off.
“Fine by me,” Drew yells. “I don’t share my fucking space with dickhead estate agents who steal my business.”
I roll my eyes and try Sarah again, thinking I need to get myself some new friends. It’s all I can do not to yell my elation when she answers. “Where are you?”
“I’m . . . why?”
“I need some help.”
“Dealing with that drunk tart? No. I’ve been dealing with it all fucking night. Your problem.” She hangs up.
“For fuck’s sake,” I yell, disturbing Coral from her slumber. She looks up at me and drunkenly grins.
“I’ve been looking for you.” Her hand lands on my stomach and strokes. “Take me to your room.”
“I’d rather eat razor blades,” I say to myself, resigning myself to the fact that I’m alone in this. I should have stayed at my rental and tore myself apart with my uncontrollable thoughts. Dipping, I lift Coral from the chair and get her on my shoulder, heading out of the bar. I don’t have time for this.
I take the stairs, bypassing my suite and entering the next room. It’s a mess, the cleaners yet to venture in here. I dump her on the bed, batting away her grabby hands when she tries to pull me down with her.
“I left him for you, you know.” She looks me straight in the eye. “Because what we shared, that was special.”
I turn and walk away. Special? No, it was fucking. I felt nothing. She’s seeing what she wants to see.
I pull the door closed behind me, stopping in my tracks, thinking, Ava’s words hitting me for the millionth time since last night.
Whatever you think you felt, what you think I felt, you’re mistaken.
I recoil. Shit, am I to Ava what Coral is to me?
No.
Laughing, I head to my office, pulling up Google on my way. Think? I don’t think anything. I know. Maybe John is right, though. Women love to talk. But not all women. The women of The Manor don’t want to talk. They don’t want to be treated reverently. Be romanced and sent flowers.
I find a florist and order some flowers, having them sent to Lusso with a note.
Sarah is at my desk when I get to my office, and I ignore the look of interest she gives me. I’m not speaking to her. Landing on the couch, I start sifting through a pile of paperwork on the coffee table, just for something to do.
“Forgive me,” she says, and I look up, confused. She turns my laptop around, showing me the screen, where an email with my order confirmation from the florist is open. A confirmation that states what I want to be written on the card. Forgive me. “Why?” she asks. “What did you do?”
I close my eyes and breathe in. It’s never been an issue that she has access to my email account. She has access to everything. Everything but my black heart. “Mind your business, Sarah,” I mutter, done with this place already. I get up and grab my suit off the back of the door.
“Is that where you’ve been recently?” she asks. “Fucking the interior designer?” There’s laughter in her tone, and it gets right under my skin. “Jesus, Jesse, she must be ten years younger than you.”
My jaw ticks, my eyes burning holes through the door before me. Don’t bite. “I’m not fucking her,” I grate, incensed by her assumption. Although, painfully, I have no right to be annoyed.
She starts laughing, and it’s like blades cutting my flesh. “Then what are you trying to do? Woo her?” She laughs some more, and I slowly pivot, my suit hanging from one hand, my face straight. Her eyes sparkle delightedly. The twisted bitch is getting a sick thrill out of baiting me.
“Shut the fuck up, Sarah.”
She smirks, standing, the bodice she’s wearing pushing her fake tits up to her chin. “You know only this life, Jesse.” Her hands rest on my desk when she bends, leaning in, getting closer. “You’d be a fool to think you can manage without it.”
“Or without you?” I ask, swinging my suit bag over my shoulder. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it? You think I can’t survive without you.” She’s right to an extent. Keeping Sarah close, looking out for her, defending her when she upsets someone—which is a lot—has always offered me a twisted sense of redemption. Because despite what I did to Carmichael, despite what she did too, he would want to know she’s okay. That’s just how he was. Always happy. Always forgiving. Always compassionate. Never held a grudge, and my father’s contempt for him was proof of that. So was Sarah’s attraction to me. He knew how she felt. I knew he knew. She knew he knew. Everyone knew he knew. But he’d smile it off. Tell me he trusted no one in the world more than me, that Sarah was a natural-born flirt, and her confidence was one of the things he loved about her. Their relationship wasn’t exclusive. But it didn’t stretch to me.