Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 135799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Elliot punches the seat in front of him again.
The car pulls up at my house and the door lock releases. I get out and slam the door.
Elliot does too, and he follows me up the steps to my house. “Get the fuck away from me,” I snap. “How dare you.”
“How dare I what?” He holds his hands out wide as if shocked. “You’re the one that’s carrying on.”
“Don’t tempt you to go back to her? Be my fucking guest, Elliot. I dare you,” I spit.
He narrows his eyes.
“You’re the one who doesn’t want to be seen with me.”
“That’s not it and you know it,” he yells. “I don’t want drama, cut your shit.”
“Well, I don’t want to be your unpaid fucking prostitute any longer. If you’re ashamed to be seen with me in public, don’t see me in private.” I unlock the front door and push it open with force. Thank God nobody’s home, we’re screaming the house down here.
“Don’t fucking threaten me, Kathryn,” he growls.
“It’s not a threat.” I slam the door in his face. “It’s a promise,” I scream through it.
He punches the door and it rattles the front of the house.
“Leave!” I yell.
He punches it again and it echoes through the whole house.
“You are going to break the fucking door, Elliot. I mean it. Go. Away!” I put the deadlock on, and march up the stairs.
I peer out of the window and see him pacing on the pavement. Andrew is out of the car talking to him, obviously trying to calm him down.
My heart is pounding as I wait for his next move. Angry Elliot Miles is a beast to behold, and damn it, I don’t want to deal with him tonight.
Please . . . just go.
Ten minutes later, I hear his door slam, peer through the crack in the curtains, and watch the car slowly pull away. Relief fills me and I drop onto my bed. “Ugh,” I fume. “What a fucking asshole.”
Chapter 20
ELLIOT
I sit in the bar and sip my Scotch. I went to work this morning, but left early.
Not in the mood for work today. Not in the mood for anything, really.
I have a lead ball in my stomach, one that isn’t going away. I screwed up on Saturday night . . . bad.
But in my defense, she’s fucking infuriating. Did she really think I would sit there all night and watch someone come on to her without consequence?
I glance at my watch, it’s 2 p.m. I haven’t heard from her and I know that I’m not going to.
Typical fucking Kathryn Landon, stubborn as all hell.
I go over my options: there aren’t any. I either have to grovel or kiss her goodbye. I know she isn’t going to come looking for me anytime soon.
I exhale heavily and scroll through my phone, find the number I’m looking for and give a disgusted shake of my head. This is a first, I’ve never done this before. I’m usually glad when they leave. Sucking up to a woman is a new kind of uncharted-territory hell.
“Hello, Park Avenue Florist,” the girl answers.
“Can I send some flowers as a matter of urgency please?”
“Sure. We can deliver that in an hour, where to?”
“Kathryn Landon, Miles Media building, level ten.”
“What would you like to send?”
“Ummmm.” I think for a moment. “What would you suggest for . . . to get out of . . .”
“An apology?”
“Yes.”
“Well, how big an apology do you need?”
“Pretty big.” I roll my eyes. “The biggest you’ve got.”
“Okay, so red roses?”
“I guess.”
“A dozen.”
I frown. “Umm . . . stubborn kind of woman.”
“Four dozen?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Okay, and what do you want the card to say.”
“Hmm.” I think for a moment. “Maybe just, ‘I’m sorry.’”
That’s so lame.
“Okay.” I can hear her typing. “Four dozen red roses and ‘I’m sorry’ on the card.”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
I frown as I think; I really should come up with something witty but I can’t think straight when she’s angry with me. “‘Love, Elliot.’”
Damn her.
She’s got me by the balls, and she fucking knows it.
“So, ‘I’m sorry, love Elliot’?” she asks as she checks the details.
“Yes. Can you call me as soon as they’ve been delivered, please?”
“Of course, sir.” I pay her with my credit card and I hang up and wait.
An hour and four glasses of Scotch later, my phone rings. “Yes.”
“The roses have been delivered, sir.”
“Did she receive them?”
“Yes, signed for them herself.”
“Thank you.” I hang up and roll my lips; this could go either way. I dial Kate’s number.
“Yes,” she answers.
I clench my jaw at the sound of her voice. She wants to fight. “Hello Kathryn.”
“What do you want, Elliot?”
“I . . .” I hesitate as I think what to say. “I wanted to see if you got your roses.”
“I did, thank you. However, there aren’t enough roses on earth to make up for your behavior.”