Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
I feel her eyes on me and look across. No doubt she won’t like my idea. “What?”
“I was just thinking about how much I love you.”
I smile like an idiot. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she’ll love my idea. “I know you do.” I squeeze her bare knee, raising my brows when she opens the window. She can’t possibly be hot, she’s hardly dressed. “Where am I heading then?” I ask for the sake of it, giving the illusion of control, hoping she tells me she doesn’t mind and she’ll go wherever I decide to take her. Follow me anywhere. Fat fucking chance.
“Oxford Street. All of the stores I like are on Oxford Street.”
I sag. Oxford Street? And . . . “All of the stores?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t there just one shop you go to?”
“I want some new shoes as well. And maybe a bag. You won’t find it all in one store.”
“I would.” All of the stores? I’m about to introduce Ava to a new way of shopping. She’ll love it. Guaranteed. Anyway, I can’t get what I need from Oxford Street.
“Where do you go?” She looks at me, curious.
“Harrods. Zoe sorts me out every time. It’s quick and pain free.”
“Yes,” she huffs, laughing but not laughing. “That’s because you pay for the service you get.”
“The service is second to none and worth every penny. They’re the best at what they do. Anyway, you’re not buying the dresses, so I get to choose the shopping style.”
“One dress, Jesse, you owe me one dress.”
I’m not getting into an argument over it. Women love shopping. They love being spoiled. She’s simply letting her pride and precious independence stop her from making the most of this. On the bright side, Sarah’s worry is not a worry, not that I ever feared it was. Ava doesn’t want my money. She just wants me.
“One dress,” she affirms.
“Lots of dresses.” I smile, looking more and more forward to spoiling her rotten. I have never in my life spent any money on a woman. I’m about to make up for it.
“You are not buying my clothes,” she splutters is revulsion.
“I fucking am,” I snap back.
“No, you’re not.”
I show the roof my eyes. “Ava, this is not up for discussion.” I nod to myself. She will let me have this. “End of.”
“No, you’re right, it’s not. I buy my own clothes.”
“Why do—”
She reaches for the stereo and turns up the volume, sitting calmly back in her seat, refusing to look at me. Difficult. Clinging to her free will like she actually wants to keep it firmly intact. For fuck’s sake, she drives me insane. She can let me buy her some clothes and retain her independence. She can indulge my desires and retain her freedom. It’s completely beside the point that I want her to wholly depend on me. I know it’ll never happen because, like it or not, and I don’t like it most of the time, given the circumstances—AKA my history—Ava will never surrender to me completely. Fact. I accept it.
Problem is, Ava’s under the incorrect illusion that by creating obstacles such as protesting gifts, she’s independent. She’s not. She’s simply missing out and pissing me off in the process.
I return my attention to the road. She’ll relent. I’m not sure how yet, but she will. I start drumming the wheel, thinking, planning, plotting, but by the time we’ve pulled up outside Harrods and I’ve parked, I have nothing. Well, I have something, but it’s a long shot. Worth a try, though. “I have a proposition for you,” I say, facing her as she collects her bag from the footwell.
“I’m not bargaining with you, and there is no scope for a sense fuck here, is there?” She exits the car, and I curse at her back as I climb out.
“Mouth,” I growl. “You already owe me a retribution fuck.”
“Do I?”
“Yes, another for your little performance at breakfast.”
She sniffs, indignant, despite knowing she wasn’t going to get off with that scot-free. “I don’t care what you propose.” She reaches down to her dress and tugs at the hem, a clue that she thinks it’s too short too.
She doesn’t care? Hmmm. What does Ava want? My secrets? Nope. My age? She got it. Or—
“You’re not buying my clothes.”
My god, she’s stubborn. Immature at times too. So I’ll lead by example. I roll my eyes to myself. Like a grown-up. Like a mentor. An older someone for her to look up to. Give me strength. “You’ve not even heard me out.” I soften my voice, hoping to appeal to her reasonable side. I’m beginning to wonder if she has one. “You’ll like what I’m going to propose.”
I’ve got her. The curiosity splashed across her face tells me so. “What?” she asks, her chin lifting.
“You let me spoil you—”
“I—”
I shush her, giving her a warning look. “And I will tell you how old I am.” I just catch her outrage before I lose her face, closing my eyes and kissing her to death, leaning her back in my arms. It’s all I’ve got, an old card, but one I’m pulling from the pack to play again.