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)
* * *
The moment I land in my office, I get straight on my laptop and look up a member of interest in the system. I dial the number we have on record and relax back in my chair, drumming my fingers on my desk.
“Hello?” Her accent sounds thicker over the phone.
“It’s Jesse Ward,” I say, and I hear her surprise in the form of a subtle inhale. “Hope you don’t mind me calling.” And picking your brain to bits.
“Of course not. How are you?”
I didn’t call for a pleasant catch-up. The last time I saw this woman, she was naked in my bed when I woke up. I need to get to the point before she assumes—or hopes—I’m calling for round two. “I’m good,” I reply, trying to keep it pleasant. “You?” I stop drumming my fingers, listening carefully. “I’ve not seen you around here for a while.” I cringe the second I say the stupid words, but I need to know what the deal is with her husband. I’m mentally praying to every god in existence that the reason she’s not been around here lately is because they’ve made amends and Van Der Haus has promised to keep his dick in his pants. And in return, she’ll steer clear of my establishment.
“I’ve been in Denmark,” she says. “Visiting my mother.”
“And your husband?”
“Is a disgusting womanizer.”
I sag in my chair. I don’t need to ask anymore.
“We’re getting a divorce,” she goes on. I want to cry on the inside. I saw the way Mikael Van Der Haus looked at Ava.
A low, rumbling growl works its way up from my toes. I have to know what I’m dealing with here. “Does he know?”
“About us?”
Why do women say that? Us? Like there’s more to it than a good fuck? “That we’ve fucked, yes.”
“Why do you ask?”
I close my eyes, my head heavy, my fingertips ironing out the creases on my forehead. How do I answer that? Do I tell her I’ve recently acquired a woman whom I’ve become a little obsessed with, and I’m concerned that her slimeball husband will find out and exact revenge? Would Ava be attracted to him? Lord, she’s getting her knickers in a twist over my age, and I know Van Der Haus is at least mid-forties. But he’s got that smooth, suave thing going on. And an accent. All refined and gentlemanly. I inwardly pout. I can be a gentleman.
When I want to be.
One thing’s for sure, though. He won’t be a snitch on me in the bedroom. So why am I starting to sweat? “I ask because I don’t want The Manor being dragged into your mudslinging match in court.” Because make no mistake, she’ll be trying to rinse him dry. Do I need to remind her of the contract?
“Don’t worry. I would like to retain my membership, thank you.”
My lip curls. Great. “So?” I prompt.
“He doesn’t know you tied me up, gagged me, and fucked me from behind, no.”
I flinch in my chair. “Good to know,” I murmur, beginning to feel drained already, and I’ve only been here five minutes. “Good talking.” I hang up and pull up Ava’s number. Call her. Just to hear her voice. Just to level out my mood. I look down at my Rolex. It’s only been an hour since I left her. Too much?
I drop my forehead to my desk, giving it a good whack, my phone clenched in my fist. I give that a good whack on the desk too. All she had to do was spend the day with me. It’s not too much to ask.
There’s a knock on the door, and someone strolls in. I remain slumped over my desk, but I manage to lift my head a bit to see who. John looks over his glasses at me. Shakes his head. And leaves without a word.
I pull my laptop closer. Flowers. Send her flowers. Loads of flowers. I need to constantly send her flowers or books or . . . anything, just to remind her I’m here. Or one flower. The flower that reminds her of me. Understated elegance. I smile, relaxing back in my chair, seeing her in my mind, gazing at me as she accepted the single calla. How much more will she accept? The flowers, yes. My body, yes. This unrelenting need to see her every day? I hope so. My Manor? I gaze around my office, my eyes falling on the cabinet that’s still loaded with alcohol. My history? I swallow, my hand naturally resting on my lower stomach. History, Ward. It’s all history. And it’ll stay that way.
I dive back on my laptop to order the flowers, looking up when Sarah strolls in, her eyes on her phone. I snap my laptop shut. “You’re here,” she says without looking up.