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)
She looks injured. It’s not a look Sarah carries well, her heavily worked-on face unable to stretch to accommodate the expression. “No, I would never do that. The gates have been playing up for a few weeks.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you were kind of busy with the interior designer, who, by the way, still hasn’t produced an actual design.”
“Don’t start, Sarah.”
“And while you’ve been busy trying to get in her fucking knickers and be all fucking crazy while you do, John and I have been run off our feet.”
In her knickers? Wrong. I’ve been trying to get into her fucking heart. “That’s what you think?” I ask, astounded. “All this madness just because I want to fuck her?”
“What else could you possibly want? She’s in her twenties, Jesse.”
“I’m not listening to this shit.” I point a finger at her, seething. “Back the fuck off,” I warn.
“I’m—”
“Just leave me the hell alone.” I storm out and slam the doors of The Manor behind me. Then slam the door of my Aston once I’m in the driver’s seat.
And hit the steering wheel.
“Fuck,” I yell, heaving, my hand feeling like it could explode. I hate her sometimes. And I hate the guilt that’s hitting me now. I have no more room for guilt. No space. I’m riddled with it.
I look up at the front of The Manor. The building is beautiful. The grounds immaculate. And yet all it’s ever brought me is ugliness.
I wince and start the engine, pulling off, mulling over all of the people who could want to fuck with me. I laugh. Where the hell do I start?
* * *
I’m still reeling off names to myself when I pull up at Lusso. I have a list as long as my arm and zero brain capacity to analyze it. I enter the lobby and find Clive snoozing at his desk. I don’t wake him, keen to get upstairs and put myself back within the reach of peace.
The doors of the elevator open, and I let myself in the penthouse, my eyes homing in on the couch, expecting to find her there snoozing. She’s not. “Don’t panic, don’t panic,” I whisper to myself, my eyes jumping around the space as I toss my keys on the table. I walk into the kitchen calmly, fighting the urge to run, and stop on the threshold of the empty space, willing my heart to calm the fuck down. “Ava?” I call, backing up, heading for the stairs. I left so abruptly. No explanation. No apology. Just left. Holding out on her again.
You’d think I’d fucking learn.
I dial her as I take the stairs in leaps, urgency feeding my weary limbs, and push my way into the bedroom. Empty bed. Her phone goes to voicemail, and I dial again as I jog to the bathroom. Empty. And I get her voicemail again. My jaw rolling, my stupid fucking heart speeding up, I charge into every bedroom, flicking on the lights, dialing her on repeat. By the time I make it to the farthest bedroom, I can hardly breathe, and I charge in, dialing her yet again.
I stagger to an abrupt halt past the threshold as her scent hits me. I don’t need to turn on the lights. She’s in here. My shoulders drop, like a release of pressure from my entire being leaves me. “Shit,” I say on an exhale, taking a moment to regulate my out-of-control breathing. Once I’ve gathered myself, I tread carefully across the carpet to the bed, and then I just stand there. Stand there and stare at her looking all wrong in the spare bed. Enough is enough. She wants me. I need her. Why the fuck are we going through this process? Because Ava needs answers? Because she’s trying to prove to herself that she can be sensible? Keep me at a distance while she figures out what she wants to do? It’s bullshit. She knows what she wants, her heart is telling her but, God damn her, she’s letting her head get in the way again.
“I love you,” I whisper, and her eyes blink open immediately. She is hearing me. Those words are sinking deeply into her. I lower, lifting her into my arms, my body not letting me down, and carry her to our bedroom. She’s a feather. Perfect in my arms, the perfect weight, the perfect fit against my chest.
“You sleep here.” I place her down gently and strip out of my clothes, climbing in behind her. The moment her back meets my front, energy surges through me. A bolt of life. Peace. Hope when I feared it was lost. “We’re going to be okay,” I whisper, feeling her melt against me, her breathing easy. “I love you so fucking much, Ava. So it has to be okay.”