Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“Right.” His expression? If it were an artwork, I’d write out a little card that reads: Does Not Compute.
“You don’t want anyone else, and you certainly don’t want anyone to have your person. Not emotionally, not physically. You want them all to yourself.”
“He said something similar,” he mutters. “Deveraux, I mean.”
My heart freezes in my chest, coming to life again in an arrhythmic rush.
“I know you don’t want to hear it, but it turns out, he’s not as bad as I thought he was.”
My stomach turns uneasily. I told myself I never wanted to hear his name again, but I’m a liar. But it’s not only my stomach that’s irritated because the tiny hairs on the back of my neck begin stand like pins for some reason.
“When did he say this?”
“What?”
“When did Deveraux tell you love sucks?”
“Tonight,” he answers quietly. Carefully. “I, er, saw him, actually. I told him about my new job. And he said love is tough, but if you really want it, you’ll move heaven and earth to make it work.”
“That’s what he said?”
Tod nods, his silence no doubt an indication of his understanding that I’m about to call him a traitorous shit.
“Who introduced you to the bigshot designer, Tod?”
“Ah.” Tod rolls his lips together as though in contemplation. “Well, I don’t exactly remember,” he says, pulling on his ear.
“Because it was so long ago?”
“Maybe.”
“Like, an hour? Two?”
“I’ve had a drink!”
I angle my head. “Who introduced you to them, dipshit?”
“Deveraux. I wasn’t going to tell you because the sound of his name causes you pain.”
“Really?” I deadpan.
“And also because he said if I wanted to impress you, I probably shouldn’t tell you he had a hand in it.”
A hand? More like a bloody great foot.
“He knows the only reason I never told you I loved you was because I thought you were too good for me.”
“Nope.” Bending my knees, I swing them around Tod.
“What do you mean no? Where are you going?”
“I’m going to take a leaf out of this book,” I say, closing it carefully and setting it on the coffee table. “I’m going to go murder my husband.”
47
RAIF
I’m on the terrace finishing my fourth whiskey and cigarette chaser when Leo calls my name. I turn back to the dining room as his head appears around the side of the door.
“She forgot the code again.” He tries not to smile, but his smile wins.
“I’m not sure she ever learned it.”
“Better get her a remote, then. She almost wiped the intercom out.”
“She drove here?”
“In the McLaren. Drove like she stole it.”
“Fast?” My heart beats twice in quick succession.
He shakes his head. “Like she was trying not to attract notice.” He grins. “She still nearly wiped the intercom out.”
“She probably thinks she’s returning it. Save her the cost of getting it towed.”
“It’s probably stuffed full of parking tickets,” he adds before disappearing.
After the boomeranging five million, I’d arranged for the McLaren to be delivered to the front of her building, once the ownership was transferred into her name.
A lot of angry texts were received that day.
My gut cramps as I step inside the house, my skin suddenly cool. The evening air or anticipation? Fear, more like. I’m exhausted, and my shoulders feel weighted down. Worry now that she’s here. Not that I’ve gotten her here.
Am I stupid for thinking I might get away with this?
Fuck it. Lavender refused to apply for a parking permit, beautiful but stubborn woman she is. I’m told by Primrose and Polly that the parking tickets have been mounting up, though I doubt they’d have a kind word to say to me if they knew the truth. But then there’s also Brin, the man who has every right to gloat but hasn’t.
They all say the same. She’s hurting. She’ll come around. She loves deeply.
Give her time.
I want to give her everything, but every night she isn’t in my bed, our bed, she feels further away from me.
I put down my glass as I hear the front door open. It doesn’t slam, out of deference for Daisy’s sleep only, I understand.
“You… twat!”
The dining room door swings open, and I duck as something narrowly misses my head. A half-empty plastic water bottle, judging by the swish, crinkle, and thud as it hits the wall, then the floor.
I turn to her, my heart in my throat. “I see you’ve come dressed for bed.”
She glances down, her eyes rising blue and fiery, like the flame of a Bunsen burner.
“You wish.”
“Always. I’ve missed you, princess. The loss comes in waves. Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning for the want of you.”
“I… haven’t missed you,” she retorts with an imperial chin lift.
You’d think it would be hard to be dignified while wearing fluffy striped pajamas, but somehow, my wife manages it.
“I haven’t missed you one bit, you managing, finagling, interfering shithead!”