Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Ava’s hand.
I tear my rabid stare off Dan and find her begging me with her eyes. She’s done that so many times today. Silently begged me. I feel her hand seize mine and squeeze. “Let’s go.”
Fuck. I know deep down I can’t lay a finger on her brother. So, reluctantly, I relent and do what’s right, backing off. Because if I let loose on Dan, Ava will be distraught. And that’s a good enough reason to let the fucker off the hook.
I turn and walk away, taking Ava with me, demanding her hand. I re-cuff us. “Don’t ask me to remove them again.”
“I won’t,” she says easily. “Throw away the key.”
With pleasure. She wouldn’t be able to go to work. Leave my side. Runaway when I pick up the conversation we need to finish. “Wishing you’d have stayed nailed to me?”
“Yes.” She looks at me with a soft but certain gaze. “Don’t free me again.”
I smile. It’s soft like her words, but definitely not certain. “Would you like a drink?”
“I’d love a drink.”
Wait. Does she think I mean a drink? Because I don’t. Water, tea, perhaps a coffee. This might be a trigger for another disagreement, and I’m done with disagreements. But she’s not having a drink. I sigh and pull her into my side, pushing my face into her hair. “I won’t stand for it, Ava,” I say. “Even if he’s your brother.”
“I know.” I hear the dread in her voice, feel it in her body language. She doesn’t think her brother will back down.
We’ll see.
Even more people have arrived by the time I get Ava back into the bar, and we battle our way through the crowds, being attacked with kisses and squeezed with hugs. Jesus. How long do we need to stay at our wedding? I’m done with people.
I give Mario a nod as we near, and he swiftly has a glass of water on the bar. I get Ava on a stool, the water in her hand, and turn away, getting my own water before she can throw any defiance, protests, or sass my way. When I see Tessa marching over, I wonder whether braving Ava’s inevitable disbelief over my choice of drink for her is a better option.
I’m blasted back with a thorough telling off from our wedding planner for being missing in action again, unavailable to cut the cake. What I want to tell her is that I didn’t hire her and pay obscene amounts to be nagged—I have a wife to do that now. But instead I say, “It’s fine,” glugging back some water.
Then Ava is quickly on my case. “Don’t you want to cut the cake? Kate went out of her way to make it at such short notice.”
“Then let’s not ruin it.” I appease her, smiling, fiddling with her necklace as she exhales an over-the-top sigh.
“You’re impossible.”
I roll my eyes to myself and roll them harder when Tessa appears again. “I’ve spoken to Elizabeth.” She has? Great. “We’re cutting the cake and having the first dance shortly, so don’t be disappearing on me again.” And with that, she’s gone, and rather than following her and relieving her of her duties, because I’m attached, literally, I realign my attention on what matters today.
Ava.
She looks as fresh and glorious as she did when she stepped into the summer room. Perhaps her cheeks are little pinker. And her hair a little wilder. Beautiful. But I know, like me, she’s done with the day. And that fucking sucks. I wanted our wedding to be incredible for her. Unforgettable. “You okay, baby?” I ask, framing the side of her face with my hand. She doesn’t nuzzle into it, and that’s a first.
“Yes,” she more or less sighs. “Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.” Fuck her brother. “I said I wanted you to enjoy today.” I think I jinxed us when I said that. Totally. It’s been a bizarre mixture of exhilarating and tiresome.
“I’m fine,” she repeats, this time shorter, looking at her glass on a shake of her head before drinking. What? Does she think alcohol will make her feel better? No. Alcohol masks things. Alcohol hurts. She needs to trust me on that.
It’s all I can do not to groan my despair when I spot Ava’s boss approaching with a woman in a wild, tight outfit. Animal print. Hideous. I face the bar and breathe in the patience I know I’m going to need as Ava elbows me in the side. “Here’s Patrick,” she whispers. “You said Monday, remember?”
“Yes, Ava,” I drone. “Just till Monday, though.”
I wince when Peterson screeches some sickly pet name for my wife, crowding her. Ava’s shoulders are hunched, her smile tight. “Mr. Ward.”
“Please, it’s Jesse.” I take his offered hand. “Thank you for coming.”
“Oh. Jesse.” Yes, let’s get on first name terms, because when my wife doesn’t follow through on her promise to advise Peterson of her intention to withdraw from working with Van Der Haus—and I have a nasty feeling she won’t—I want to be able to talk to him man to man and have his respect. So I will grin and bear him for as long as this takes. I pray it’s not too long “This is Irene.”