Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
I leave Cathy to it, placing her bags on the side and heading for the lounge. Boxes are stacked everywhere, and I blow out air, wondering where the fuck I start.
“When do you go back to Ireland, Cathy?” I call, grabbing a random box and pulling off the tape.
“In the morning, boy,” she says, and I sigh. The boxes just keep appearing—in corners, under tables, behind the couch. “We’ll get as much done today as we can. Then you’ll have to survive without me until I’m back.”
I crouch and pull the box open and immediately wish I hadn’t. Of the hundreds scattered everywhere, I picked this one? My heart squeezes as I pull out a framed photograph of Jake and me. My eyes sting. My throat clogs. He stares at me, his eyes twinkling madly, his smile bright. Alive. And like I’m not sad enough, I pull out another picture. A little girl gazes back at me. My hands start to shake, my vision blurred.
“Jesse?” Cathy asks softly, and I quickly clear my throat, scrubbing at my cheeks roughly. I look up at her, and she smiles sadly. I can’t take it. I stand and take the pictures to the nearest sideboard, pulling a drawer open and slipping them away. Jake and Rosie don’t deserve to be hidden, but I just can’t right now. Cathy doesn’t murmur a word. Never does. She knows better than to raise a conversation I never want to have.
“I’ll start on my wardrobe,” I say, making my way up the stairs. I don’t go to the wardrobe. I head straight into the bathroom and close the door, roughly wiping at my cheeks as I sniff back the suffocating hurt. God, I miss them. Every fucking day.
I fall back heavily against the door, my head in my hands, my palms squeezing my temples in an attempt to push the visions away. Alcohol. Drink it all away. Fuck your way through the pain. “Fuck,” I breathe, my eyes landing on the vanity unit.
Ava.
She’s everywhere in here. She’s everywhere in the whole penthouse. My heart kicks. Jesus, I’ve got it bad. Whatever it is.
I meant what I said. I knew that once I’d been intimate with her, she would be mine. She better believe it.
I suddenly jolt forward, courtesy of the door being pushed from the other side. “Yo, Jesse, my man, you in there?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah.” I move back as Sam swings the door open. He looks as crumpled as always. “Christening your new loo?” he asks, grinning.
No, I was having a minor breakdown. I pass him and pull one of the suitcases onto the bed. The obscenely colossal bed. She’ll be in it soon.
“Fuck me, man, this place is something else,” Sam says, poking around in my bedroom. “I can see why you’d sack off The Manor.” He lands on my bed, arms and legs spread.
I pull out a pile of jeans and take them into the wardrobe. “Where’s Drew?” I’m mentally planning an impromptu housewarming as I find a home for my jeans, just the three of us. Here. Tonight. It’ll keep me busy for a while longer until it’s acceptable to call her.
“He’s at work this morning. Said he’d be here later.” Sam appears in the doorway, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. “You okay, mate?” he asks, his concerned eyes running up and down my form. “You look . . .”
If he says I look stre—
“Stressed,” he finishes, cocking his head. “Come on, tell Uncle Sam.”
I laugh under my breath, welcoming Sam’s attempts to lighten my mood. “You’re thirty. Stop talking to me like you’re double that.” I edge past him into the bedroom.
“What’s going on with the pretty little interior designer?”
I stop at the bed, searching for what to tell him. “Nothing.” I take out a stack of black T-shirts, hearing him chuckle to himself. “So you came here last night to network, did you? Offer free memberships to The Manor?”
I frown and face him. “How did you know I was here?”
“John,” he says, and I scowl. “I’m worried about you, man. You’ve not been around The Manor much this past week. Everyone’s talking.”
“Let them talk.” I go back to the wardrobe. “Nothing is going on with the interior designer.”
“Sure,” I hear him say on a sigh. He hands me a stack of gray T-shirts, and I avoid his eyes as I accept them, setting them in a drawer below the black ones. I’m not sure why I’m being so cagey. Or maybe I do. Sarah’s reaction stung. “So what’s the plan?” he asks.
“Unpack, eat, and chill the fuck out.”
“High five,” he sings, raising a hand. I leave him hanging but nudge his shoulder playfully as I pass, spiking a chuckle.
“Jesse,” Cathy calls. “Jesse, where the flaming heck are you?”