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 need her.
I also need to run.
I go up to my private suite and change into some shorts.
And I run. I run until I can no longer feel my legs and my head is full of nothing but racing-hot blood.
* * *
But, of course, as soon as I stopped running, the unwanted tension came right back. Someone needs to call the fucking shrink, because I feel like a need a sedative. I shower, change, and land at my desk. I order flowers for Ava, relaying exactly what I want written on the card, and pay extra to have them delivered before eleven, which is when she’ll be leaving her office to come see me. That brings a little smile to my face. Then I tackle something that’s been bothering me since I saw Ava get into that shit heap, bone-shaking van. I spend a few hours trawling the Internet, but after coming up with nothing, I call a local dealership, tell them what I’m looking for, and express my thanks when the salesman ensures me he’ll find something suitable. “Make sure it’s pink,” I say before hanging up.
I glance at my Rolex. Did time ever tick by so fucking slowly? I get up, walk circles around my office, sit down, stand up, pace some more. Not long, I tell myself. Then I can relax. She can get her work done, I might even sit and watch her, and as soon as she’s finished, I’ll take her home. I drop my head back. “Make time go faster, please,” I beg, fishing around in my pocket when my phone dings. And then I nearly throw up all over it when I read the message.
Cancel?
She’s canceling on me? “I don’t think so,” I say, smacking the dial button, pacing some more. “Pick up, Ava. Don’t do this to me.” It goes to voicemail. “Fuck!” I hammer out a text.
Cancel for what?
I take a seat on the couch, having to put my fucking head between my legs to remedy my dizzy spell. What kind of pussy am I? I feel sick. Injured. Panicked.
My phone dings, and I scramble to get it. I literally cannot believe what I read. “Give you time?” I’ve given her loads of fucking time. Time that’s felt like centuries. “This is too intense?” I go on. “Too quickly?” I stand, my eyes rereading it over and over, my heart sinking more each read. “It’s also fucking amazing, Ava,” I whisper, taking my phone and pushing it into my forehead, clenching my eyes shut. I am not going back to square one. No fucking way. I dial her again, and it goes to voicemail again.
And again.
And again, and again, and again.
“Fuck this.” I stride out of my office, the floor shaking under my feet from the impact of my determined pace. People clock me. Move from my path. Wise people. All except John, who blocks the doorway out of The Manor.
“You’re going to do something stupid,” he says, widening his stance, standing firm.
“Move,” I growl, and it’s a fucking surprise, but he does. Albeit slowly and with a despairing sigh.
I get in my car and skid my way down the driveway, dialing Ava on repeat, and each time it goes to voicemail, I curse and smack my steering wheel.
The traffic is diabolical. It matches my mood. I spend over an hour stopping and starting, not seeming to get anywhere fast. “Come on,” I growl, poking the nose of my car out of the traffic every now and then to try and see what the holdup is. I’d get there faster walking at this rate, and I’m not opposed to doing that. She needs to cancel. Needs? She doesn’t need to do anything. She wants to. Why? After everything, why? I yell my frustration, looking at my dashboard when my phone rings.
“What?” I bark down the line to Sam, pulling out of the lane again but quickly zipping back in when I see a bus coasting toward me. The driver sounds his horn, flipping me the finger as he sails past.
“Good to hear your voice,” Sam quips, and my lip curls at the bumper-to-bumper traffic ahead. I’m not in the mood for his happy-go-lucky disposition today. It’s been a shitstorm from the second I opened my eyes—even before, actually—and the one thing that was guaranteed to improve it has canceled on me. “Where are you?”
“Stuck in traffic,” I grunt. “On my way into the city.” To talk some sense into someone. Or maybe I’ll fuck some sense into her.
“Yeah, traffic’s shocking today, mate.”
“Did you just call for a chit-chat?”
“Fuck me, who’s shat in your coffee this morning?” he asks, and I roll my eyes, giving my horn a few irritated smacks.
“Sam, what do you want?” I ask.
“I’m meeting Drew for a lunchtime pint.”