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)
“Master suite,” I yell, zipping up the first empty case and setting it aside as Sam retrieves another.
“Ah, there you are. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack,” she says, taking out her duster and having a quick polish of the door handle. “A man called. I answered the little phone thing by the door. There’s someone here to see you.”
I look up sharply. “Who?”
“A lady. I told him not to let her up because I don’t know who it is. She’s waiting in the foyer.” She tucks her duster back in her apron, and I silently thank her for being so cautious.
“Name?” I ask, feeling Sam’s interested look on my profile.
“She wouldn’t say.”
“Fuck me, they’ve sniffed you out already.” Sam laughs as he starts unzipping the second case. “Or could it be the interior designer?”
“Shut up, Sam,” I mumble, giving Cathy an appreciative rub of her shoulder as I pass, heading downstairs.
“Interior designer?” Cathy asks, with way too much interest in her tone. “Who’s the interior designer?”
“She’s the interior designer,” I call as I take the stairs, hearing Sam laughing again. Ava’s one of the only people who know where I live now. Could it be her?
My pace increases and the journey down in the elevator is the longest of my life, but it gives me some time to reason with myself. Of course it’s not Ava. Why would she withhold her name? Or . . . does she want to surprise me?
The doors open. My hope builds.
And dies.
Mikael’s wife gets up from one of the chairs. “Jesse,” she says.
“Freja,” I breathe, my legs unwilling to carry me out of the lift. “What are you doing here?” Stupidest fucking question ever asked.
She approaches, cautious, as she should be. “Can we talk?”
“What about?”
“Us,” she says, coming to a stop outside the lift.
“There is no us, Freja.” I back up, reaching for the button, but her hand comes out and stops the doors from closing.
“Why the call this morning?”
“I told you why.”
Her head cocks, her blonde hair falling over her shoulder. Her eyes look glassy. Sad. And damn my heart for feeling these days. I breathe in and step out, motioning her to one of the chairs in the foyer while checking we’re alone. The flowers I sent Ava catch my eye, still sitting pretty on the concierge’s desk. My nose wrinkles. They should be in Ava’s bedroom. She should be looking at them and thinking of me.
Freja sits, looking suddenly hopeful past her sadness, and I resign myself to spelling it out. I take the chair opposite her, having a quick rub at my forehead. “How do you know where . . .”
“You live?” She’s looking at me like it’s a stupid question, because, of course, it is. Her soon-to-be ex-husband is one of the developers of this building, and I bought the fucking penthouse.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “You need to pretend what happened never happened,” I say as softly as I can. Lord knows, there are plenty of men around The Manor ready to tie her up if that’s what she wants. I just can’t be one of them.
“Easy for you to say.”
She’s right. It is, and I’m in no position to question why that is these days. “I won’t be around The Manor as often as I used to be.” Or drunk like I used to be.
“Why?”
“I have other interests filling my time at the moment.” Listen to me. Other interests? Who do I think I am? I sigh, flopping back in the chair. I’m no good at reasoning with women. They can’t be reasoned with.
“May I ask what?” she presses.
“No,” I reply flatly. “Freja, The Manor isn’t a place you go to find love. It’s a place you go to fuck.”
“I’m in love with you now?” she asks, her shoulders straightening. “Who said anything about love?”
“So you just want me to tie you up again, do you? Because there are hundreds of members of The Manor prepared to do that. Are you going to show up at their homes asking to talk?”
She wilts a little, looking away, and I find myself rubbing my forehead again. “Freja, concentrate on you for a while.” What am I, a fucking life coach? I laugh to myself, standing from my chair. “I have visitors.”
Freja rises, slinging her bag onto her shoulder, refusing to look at me. I feel like shit. Being sober brings on too many emotions I don’t know how to deal with. She turns and walks away, head held high, trying to claw back some self-respect. The door is pulled open from the other side, and Drew stands back, letting her through, ever the impassive gentleman. His eyes follow Freja’s path, a heavy frown falling into place.
He recognizes her. Great. “Hey,” I say, pulling his attention to me. I’ve never known a man to look constantly and consistently pristine. He’s been at work all morning and looks like his suit has just come back from the dry cleaners. And his hair? Not a strand out of place. His blue eyes look tired though. “Late night?” I ask, strolling to the elevator. Every night is a late night for Drew.