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)
Ava’s eyes bug. “I can’t believe you’ve just told me your PIN number.”
“No secrets, remember?” Am I a complete cunt? I quickly turn and walk away before Ava catches my flinch.
“You are thirty-seven,” she calls, sounding happy. Happy that I’m not older? “Your PIN number. You were born in seventy-four. You didn’t lie at all, did you?”
Exactly thirty-eight years ago on Monday. One year closer to forty. And the one woman I love is still on the right side of thirty, by quite some years. How the fuck have I been on this planet for thirty-eight years? And how have I survived them? I honestly don’t know, but for the first time in a long time, I’m really fucking happy I did.
I look back at the woman who’s changed me—sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worst—blowing her a kiss, before leaving her delighted form and putting myself out of eyeshot.
I dial John. “What are my chances of not coming over this—”
“Zero,” he grunts, and my shoulders drop. “A few of the cameras have gone down.”
“What?”
“I’ve called the company. We’re on a twelve-hour contract, which means they can come anytime between now and—”
“Early hours of tomorrow morning.” I look up at the ceiling. “Fuck.”
“Indeed. I’m checking them over to see if it’s something I can fix temporarily to tide us over until tomorrow morning. Could do with a hand.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
“Where are you?”
“Hell.”
“Still?”
“How’s Sarah?”
“Moody. What’s gone on?”
Definitely not telling John that over the phone. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Yeah, we also need to discuss Steve Cooke.”
My back straightens. Loose. “Why?”
“I’m not sure I like how he conducts himself. He’s getting a bit heavy-handed for my liking.”
I’ll scratch you back, you scratch mine. Fucking hell, is he expecting me to overlook this? “A complaint?”
“Not yet. Give it time.”
“We should talk to him tonight.” I won’t be scratching his back.
“He’s not attending. On duty. Tomorrow?”
I inwardly groan. I don’t want to do anything tomorrow other than worship Ava. I certainly don’t want to deal with a loose member. “I’m a bit busy tomorrow.” I cringe.
“Sunday then.”
I grimace. “I’ll see you in a bit.” I hang up, curse a few times, and return to the personal shopping area, wiping my face clean of irritation. Ava wanders out, her eyes fixed on me, her expression happy. “Thank you.” She gives me a kiss, handing me my credit card.
“You’re more than welcome.” I accept her affection, relinquishing her of the bags. “Do I get another show?” One that doesn’t involve me dashing around like a prick in between outfit changes.
“Of course, but you don’t get to see the gown.”
I laugh to myself. I think I’ve seen every gown Harrods stocks today. “Which one did you pick?”
“You’ll find out later.”
A surprise? Can’t wait.
“So,” she muses, casual. “My man really is knocking on forty.”
I pause sucking at her neck and scowl. Jesus, why does forties sound so much older than thirties? Sounds fucking ancient compared to twenties. I get her in my sights, seeing utter delight on her face. I suppose I should be grateful there’s not horror. But it would be perfect for me if we never talked about our ages. I take her hand and start leading her on. “Does it bother you?”
“Not at all,” she answers quickly, sounding quiet convincing too. So why the fuck won’t she stop banging on about it? “Why does it bother you, though?”
“Ava,” I say on a sigh, keeping us moving, mindful of the time. “Do you remember one of the very first things you said to me?” How old are you?
“Why did you lie?”
“Because you wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t a problem.” I look down at her, finding a wide, glorious smile.
“It doesn’t bother me in the slightest how old you are.” She’s talking bullshit. Of course it bothers her—as proven with her incessant questioning in that regard. Trying to convince me now that I was worried over nothing is sweet but wasted. “Is that a gray hair?”
I get us on the escalator and turn to face her. She still looks delighted, even if she’s trying her hardest not to be. No, baby, that is not a gray hair. Because I just fucking checked for them in the mirror. “Do you think you’re funny?” I don’t give her a moment to answer, dipping and tossing her onto my shoulder.
“Jesse,” she shrieks as I turn and walk off the escalator, pacing through the store, smiling at every person I pass who’s looking on, some wide-eyed, some turning to mush. Mostly the women.
I pass Hans, whose hand slaps into his chest, love hearts popping into his eyes. I give him a nod. “Good day, Mr. Ward,” he calls as we pass.
“So far, so good,” I muse, looking up to the sky and throwing a quick prayer out there that it remains this way.