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)
“She can get home just fine.”
“Is that so?” Kate asks, turning her eyes onto my grinning mate.
I laugh lightly. “What is it with you women trying to play hard to get?” I ask, leading Ava out of the bar. I get her onto the street, and she loses her footing, staggering a few paces. “For fuck’s sake,” I grumble, gathering her up and carrying her. I’ve never seen anyone so drunk in my life. Except, perhaps, me.
I look at her nestled into my chest, her eyes closed, her face peaceful. “You’re not going to throw up on me, are you?”
She snorts. “No.”
I laugh at her indignation. “Are you sure?”
“I’m fine.”
Totally fine. I roll my eyes as we approach my Aston, making a vow to myself to never let her get in this state again. It’s reckless. Dangerous. It’s me. And it certainly isn’t Ava. “Okay, a few seconds’ warning would be nice, though.” I unlock my car and negotiate her body in my arms to get the door open. “I’m putting you in my car now.”
“I’m not going to throw up.”
I sigh and place her on the seat, watching carefully for any signs that she’s going to spill her guts. The harsh light inside my car shines bright, and my eyes fall to the top of her arm. The bruises. They’ve faded, but they’re still there, marring her beautiful olive skin. I swallow and pull the belt across her body, fastening it as she drags her eyes open, squinting.
“You’re adorable, even when you’re legless.” I drop a chaste kiss on her lips. “You’re coming home with me.”
“You’re bossy.”
No, Ava, I’m a man on the edge, and since you put me there, you’ve got to stop me from falling. Which means compliance. “Get used to it.” I round the car and jump in. She begins circling her stomach with her palm when I start the engine, the deep rumble not helping. I laugh lightly, thinking this is not what I had hoped tonight would entail. But she’s with me. That’s the most important thing.
“Jesse?” she slurs, and I look up at her heavy eyes.
I smile a little, not that she’d know. She probably can’t even see me now, and that’s another reason why she won’t be drinking anymore. I need her to see me as clearly as I see her. “Yes, Ava?”
She gives in and closes her eyes. “How old are you?”
I breathe out. Swallow. “Twenty–five.”
“It doesn’t matter how old you are,” she says, and I cock my head, somewhat surprised. Then why does she keep asking?
“It doesn’t?”
“No, it doesn’t.” She settles farther into her seat. “Nothing matters—I still love you.”
I nearly choke on my tongue. “What?” I reach for her hand, taking it, threading our fingers together. “Ava?”
She’s sparko. Unconscious.
And though it’s been mentioned, suggested, and I’ve thought it a hundred times, I’m in shock.
She loves me?
I slide my hand into her hair, leaning over the console, and press my lips into her cheek, praying this isn’t just the drink talking. Praying she remembers this.
“I hope you can love me, baby,” I whisper, closing my eyes and ignoring the smell of so much alcohol on her, polluting her. “Because I’m madly, crazily in love with you.”
I sigh, feeling despondent, and recline the seat to get her comfortable. I’ll never forget this moment. But just in case . . .
I lift my arse from my seat, rootling through my pocket for my phone. And I take a picture of her, the only one I’ll ever take of her plastered, but hopefully not the only one I’ll take after she’s told me she loves me.
* * *
The drive back to Lusso is long, with only my tormenting thoughts for company. I feel like I’m on a runaway train, coasting toward a disaster, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. But perhaps I can slow it down. Give myself time to figure some of this shit out.
“Fuck,” I breathe, wedging my elbow into the door and resting my heavy head on it. And as if my car feels it’s appropriate, Angel comes on, low and soft in the background. I look at her sleeping form.
Do whatever it takes to keep her.
Simple.
* * *
It’s like trying to handle a slippery dead fish. She’s floppy, a dead weight, could even be dribbling as I wrestle her out of the passenger seat. And the smell. Christ, the smell. I nudge the door of my Aston closed with my hip and stride into Lusso with her draped across my arms, lifeless. The concierge is propped in a chair behind the desk, napping. He must hear my footsteps because the old bugger startles and shoots up in a panic.
“Mr. Ward,” he blurts, straightening his hat, his sleepy eyes on the drunk woman in my arms. He rushes to the elevator and punches in the code.