Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 115737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
‘I love you.’ He grinds the three words through a frustrated jaw. ‘I left her before, remember? This isn’t about thinking the grass is greener, or being blindsided by great sex and excitement.’ He reaches for my face and pulls it towards him so he has my eyes. ‘I’m not delusional, Annie. I’m head over heels. I don’t care what people think if they find out, but I’ll do my best to make sure they don’t. I need to keep you away from it.’ He drops a light kiss on the edge of my mouth. ‘I have one shot on this earth. One life. I can’t see my days through to the end with someone who I’m not supposed to be with. I wish I’d met you fifteen years ago. But I didn’t. I can’t dwell on that.’ His eyes cloud over as his thumb swipes slowly across my bottom lip, his gaze following its journey. ‘I just have to be thankful that you did eventually show up.’ He slowly returns his eyes to mine, and I feel my bottom lip tremble under his thumb. ‘It’s you and me against the world, baby. Don’t give up, do you hear me?’
My face twists with sadness, my throat closing up on me, and I roll over, putting myself on his chest and burying my face in his neck, needing closeness and comfort . . . needing Jack. ‘I love you.’ My voice shakes with so many emotions, and my body presses into his as far as I can get it. ‘I’ll hold your hand through this if you hold mine.’
‘I’ll never let go, Annie. Not for anything.’
Chapter 21
I look over my shoulder when I hear Jack’s footsteps padding into the kitchen, finding him with his phone in his hand, spinning it slowly, thoughtfully. I dip a spoon in my fresh cup of coffee. He’s pulled his boxers on, but the sight I’d usually be rapt by is being overshadowed by the blankness of his expression. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, slowing my stirring.
‘Stephanie’s father,’ he says, holding up his phone. ‘I should be at his birthday celebrations beside my wife.’ He smiles, but it’s strained. ‘Because God forbid anyone notices my absence and surmises what that might mean.’
Placing my spoon on the drainer, I take my coffee and turn towards him. ‘If you have to go . . .’ I start, swallowing down the strength I need to say the words that I really don’t want to say, ‘then . . .’ It’s no good. I can’t tell him to go.
‘I don’t want to go,’ he says softly.
My smile is relieved but sad. ‘Okay,’ I reply, not sure of what else to say. I don’t feel any sense of triumph that he’s choosing not to go. This isn’t a trivial he picked me over her situation.
‘I don’t want to make assumptions, but I was hoping we could do something.’ Jack gives me hopeful eyes.
‘Like what?’ I ask. We hardly have the luxury of freedom to go where we please and do what we like.
‘Like just be together.’ He shrugs, almost embarrassed. ‘Watch trashy television, eat junk, be lazy.’
I smile. I don’t need to venture into public. Not when I can hide in here with Jack and smother him all day long. ‘I like that idea.’
‘You do?’ He smiles too, bright and beautiful, and the knowledge that such a simple thing can make him so elated warms me soul-deep.
‘I need to pop to the shop,’ I tell him, swilling my mug in the sink. ‘I need milk.’
‘And junk food,’ he pipes up, his excitement growing. ‘Get some of those strawberry sweets. The big ones. Giant Strawbs. Lots of them. And how about I cook something?’
‘You’re going to cook for me?’ I ask, loving the sound of that. No man’s ever cooked for me before. Not ever, and I love that Jack will be the first.
‘Yes.’ Jack heads for the drawers and starts pulling them open one by one. ‘I’ll write you a list. Where do you keep your pens and paper?’
‘Here.’ I reach to the shelf and pull down a pad, then go through my bag to find a pen. I hand them to him and he takes a seat, starting to write. I look over his shoulder, peeking down at his list. His long list. Beef stock? Cornflour? Crème fraiche? He’s cooking for me, and he’s cooking from scratch?
‘Sherbet dip?’ I ask, frowning.
‘Yes.’ He looks up at me. ‘You know, the little pouches of sherbet that come with a strawberry lollipop inside? You lick and dip, and when the lolly has gone, you lick your finger and shove it in to scoop out the sherbet.’
Oh God, he’s adorable. ‘Lick your finger and shove it in? Will that be dessert?’
His eyes try to narrow, but they’re glimmering too much. ‘I have something else in mind for dessert.’