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 loves me.
7
I get out of my Aston slowly, looking up at the building, taking a moment to appreciate what I’ve long stopped appreciating. I’ve lived in a dense fog of misery for so long, everything distorted, everything hazy, and for the first time in a long time, I’m seeing things so very clearly. Most of all, Ava O’Shea.
I smile as I slip off my shades and make my way into the predictably quiet lobby. “Morning,” I say to one of the housekeeping staff, getting a feather duster waved at me as I pass. “Hi, Pete,” I call as I stride past the bar, seeing him loading the glass washer. “Sarah,” I say more civilly than she deserves as she exits the spa area, sliding to a stop on her heels. I flash her a smile and get scowled at for my trouble.
“Someone’s happy,” she mutters.
“A confession of love will do that to a man,” I say quietly to myself. From the right woman, of course. Unlike Coral or Freja Van Der Haus.
“What?” Sarah asks, falling into stride beside me, scurrying to keep up.
I frown, keeping up my pace. “What, what?”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. What’s the situation with the gates? Fixed?”
“They’re being serviced later.”
So there will be no more malfunctioning. Not of the gates, anyway. “Good.” I take the handle of my office door and burst in, all smiles. And it drops like a rock when I find Coral on the couch. I did it, didn’t I? I fucking jinxed myself.
“I’ll leave you to it.” Sarah smiles too, but hers is smug, and she nudges me in the back, sending me staggering farther into my office, then slams the door. My lip curls.
“Jesse,” Coral says, sounding rather subdued.
“What?” I don’t even scorn myself for being curt. I’ve never known a woman with such thick skin. My good day is fast slipping down the pan.
“Won’t you even look at me?”
I send my eyes to my feet and walk across to my desk. Where the fuck is John, anyway? And that immigration officer? “What can I do for you, Coral?” I ask as I tap and hit at the keys of my laptop randomly. Keep it business. Keep it cold.
“It’s—”
“Actually”—I slam the lid down and shoot up—“I don’t want to hear it.” I round the desk, and her eyes follow me as I make my way to the door and swing it open. “Out.” This woman has caused me so much stress, triggered untold fucking headaches. I owe her nothing, especially not my time. “I said, out.” I ensure I keep my eyes off her, not wanting anything to soften me, and tears might do that.
“But—”
“Out,” I yell, frustration getting the better of me. But my energy levels are being tested as it is, and Coral is an additional drain. I’m done.
“Please, Jesse. I have nothing.”
I can’t make her problems my problems. I have too many of my own fucking problems, so I remain silent, standing my ground, refusing to give her eye contact, until she eventually relents and slowly stands. I step back, out of range, as she leaves my office. And when I close the door behind her, I fall against it and finally give my lungs the air they’re screaming for. “God help me,” I breathe, resting my head back, taking a few needed moments to collect myself. Every time I’m here, I feel like I’m running the fucking gauntlet. Fighting for my life. I groan and drag a palm down my face, and then jolt forward when someone tries to open the door behind me.
I hiss, the edge of the wood smacking me straight between my shoulder blades. “Ouch, you fucker.”
John appears, scowling.
“Don’t ask,” I warn. “Where the fuck are the police, anyway?” Isn’t that why he summoned me?
Suddenly, John’s frown isn’t a frown anymore. It’s a sneer, and he steps to the side, revealing the cocky wanker of a Chief Immigration Officer, Kev Baxter. Good. Let’s deal with this so I can get out of here. “Take a seat.” I go to my desk and rummage through the files, searching for the one I need.
“I’m not here in an official capacity,” he says, and I pause, looking up, finding him shifting uncomfortably on his feet. He smiles awkwardly and closes the door behind him. I flick my eyes to John, and he peeks over his glasses, eyebrows high.
Ohhhhhhh.
John said Baxter had more interviews to conduct. A way to get me back to The Manor? Turns out it’s me interviewing him. Resting back in my chair, I get comfortable. So he fancies a piece of my manor, does he? Come on, you dirty fucker. Say it. Ask me. I might even make him beg. He was a professional cunt last night.
I motion to the chair, and he wanders over, lowering as he clears his throat, and I assess him, watch him, as he tries to find the pluck to speak. He’s clean-cut. Looks a bit of a drip, to be honest. But it takes all kinds. The question is, can he afford it? I’ve met people who have balked at the membership fees and people who haven’t batted an eyelid. I’ve also learned not to assume someone’s financial situation. Some members are born with silver spoons in their mouths, Coral being an example. Some members are self-made, Drew, for instance. And some come into money by other means—a windfall or inheritance. That’s Sam. So, yeah, it takes all kinds, and all kinds come with a variety of riches.