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 doesn’t—at least not for now.
And if you’re a jaffa, will you keep that from her too?
“Does it matter?” I ask thin air. “She obviously doesn’t want kids.” Maybe that’s a conversation we should have. Not now off the back of the recent traumas, but definitely a conversation for the future. Or maybe not, depending on the results of these tests.
“Good morning, Harley Street Fertility Clinic, how can I help you?”
I’m cringing already. “Yes, hi, how would one go about getting tested?”
“I assume you mean sperm tests, sir?”
“Yeah, that.”
“We would book an appointment for you to discuss the issue with a consultant and they would advise a plan of action.”
“Great. Good.”
“We have availability on Friday if that suits. Around one o’clock with Dr. Richie.”
“Perfect.”
“Let me take some details.”
The call takes the rest of the drive to Berkley Square, and I’m absolutely astounded by the number of initial questions I have to answer in order to get the appointment. I’m not looking forward to the other questions on the day, which will no doubt include being interrogated on my lifestyle. “See you Friday,” I say, seeing a white Range Rover pass, driving shockingly slowly. I chuckle as I slip into a space and get out, crossing the road to the florist and sliding the box onto the counter.
“May I?” she asks, and I wave in prompt for her to help herself. She opens the box and gasps. “Wow.”
“Don’t lose it, will you?” I say on a mild smile as I dip into my pocket, putting some notes on the counter before backing up.
Florist girl chews the corner of her lip. “I don’t suppose you have any friends looking for a younger woman?”
“You cheeky sod. How old do you think I am?”
“Older than your wife.”
“I think I might find another florist.”
“No, you won’t. I’m too prompt for you.” She slips the box under the counter, cocking her head. “What should the card say?”
“No card today. Just the flowers and the box.” I dip my chin, leveling her with a playful look. “With the watch inside.”
“That’ll be extra.”
I laugh under my breath and leave, frowning as Ava’s white Range Rover passes the shop. Is she driving around in circles? I check the time. “Someone’s going to be late.” Maybe she’ll be fired. I hum, slipping my hands into my pockets and crossing the road. Of course, I wouldn’t want her to be fired because she’d be upset. But I’d cheer her up. Set her up in business. Make sure she’s got everything she needs to be a roaring success. Like an assistant, for example, who would take the pressure off and deal with all the admin work, which would free up some of Ava’s time. Less stress, less pressure. And, of course, the less stressed and pressured my wife is, all the better for me too.
Her new Range Rover rounds the corner and I slip into my car, starting it and pulling out, following her. I just catch the back end as she pulls into an underground car park. Guaranteed, she was trying to find a space on the street so she didn’t have to tackle the restricted maneuvering spaces in one of London’s tight car parks. I chuckle. She’ll be fine. Like I said, sensors everywhere.
I indicate and take a left at the bottom of the road, putting my foot down.
But slam down on my brakes when someone on the pavement catches my eye. “What the fuck?” I murmur, turning in my seat to watch her walking up the street. I frown, rubbing at my eyes, opening again and looking in my rearview mirror for her. She crosses the road, her arm in the air. No.
Getting out of my car, I pace after her, my legs breaking into an urgent jog, then into a full-on run, my eyes set on the woman in the road. “Lau . . .” I fade off, my legs slowing, like my mind and body are telling me to rein myself in, reminding me of the last time I thought I saw her. I grabbed some poor strange woman, gave her the shock of her life. It wasn’t Lauren.
She gets into a cab, and it drives off as I stand in the middle of the road watching. My racing heart bangs in my chest, making me rub at it, my scar tingling. What the hell is going on? I back up, eyes on the cab, pulling out my phone and getting Google up. And I wonder, what the hell do I intend on googling? I squint at the screen. Where she went was never divulged, and I didn’t care as long as she was out of my life. The police weren’t involved, and her family agreed to get her help.
I reach up to my forehead and wipe it, backing up, watching the cab take a corner. I need to find her parents and check she’s still locked up, because I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind.