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)
“You look significantly happier,” Kate muses, leaving Sam by the sink to fetch a mug.
“Ava and I have reached an understanding.”
“Oh, good.” Sam seems genuinely happy for me. Good. I’m happy too. “What’s that?” He takes a chair, but I’m distracted from answering him when Ava stomps in. She’s still in the jumper. And a filthy look is still marring her gorgeous face. She goes straight to the bottle of wine and pours a large glass as if to make a point. Oh, she’s walking a very fine line. Next time, I won’t force her into a jumper. It’ll be a fucking cage. I glower at her as she settles against the worktop, wine in hand. Has she forgotten about the monster hangover she had? Has she forgotten that she swore to never drink again? She’s doing this to rile me. To get one back.
“Made up?” Kate asks, crossing the kitchen and lowering to Sam’s lap. He accepts with ease, doesn’t bat an eyelid, even jokes about dropping her through his spread thighs. It’s unusual to see him so wrapped up in a woman. I can’t deny it suits him.
“No,” Ava spits, and I pout. Well, that’s not true. Why does she talk such nonsense? “And if you’d like to know who has put a hole in your kitchen door,” she goes on, motioning to the wood I buried my fist in not so long ago, “look no further. He also smashed your wine glass.”
“Let me know if it’s any more.” I nail Ava in place, daring her to continue with the childish games, as I toss a pile of notes on the table.
“That should cover it,” Kate says.
I approach Ava, slowly and casually. “I like your jumper,” I whisper.
Her head tilts, her eyes now slits. “Fuck off,” she mouths, then follows up one transgression with another, necking a stupidly ridiculous amount of wine.
Let it go, Ward.
But she is quite funny. I kiss her nose. “Mouth.” And grab the back of her head, pulling her into me. “Don’t drink too much,” I warn, and I kiss her. Hard. Like I own her. Because while I’m consuming her like this, I do.
The jumper is forgotten. Her sulk is forgotten. The wine and the bad language are forgotten. She’s putty in my hands, and I am no longer pissed off with her.
“You might need to remind me of that,” she says, and I laugh, a proper laugh, one full of happiness. I’ll remind her of all the things for all the days.
She watches me as she takes another sip, waiting for my reaction. I don’t give her one. Only because she’s home and, actually, I don’t want to leave her on bad terms. I want to leave her with a potent reminder of our chemistry. I’ve done what I came to do. “My work here is done.” I turn and leave, starting to count down the minutes to tomorrow.
My phone rings as I pace to my car, John’s name flashing up at me. “I’m coming,” I say on a sigh.
“Good. There’s someone here to see you.”
“Who?”
“Freja Van Der Haus.”
I stop in the middle of the road, looking back at Kate’s place. Fuck me, never have I been so glad to lose a battle with Ava. “I’m popular these days, huh?” I quip, but John doesn’t agree or even disagree. He hangs up on me and my shoulders drop, my palm running a long, slow stroke over my face. It’s one step forward, ten steps back.
22
My car rolls down the drive toward The Manor, seeming as reluctant as I am to be here. It’s busy, cars filling the vast expanse of driveway, the double doors open.
Once parked, I notice the state of my gray suit. It looks like I’ve been wrestling in it. My hidden smile is huge, visions of Ava squirming on the bed beneath me running rampant in my mind. I reach down and adjust my dick, the damn thing swelling. I don’t want to be here.
I stomp moodily up the steps, and when I walk in, I’m more than relieved I relented to Ava’s refusal to come, not only because Freja is here somewhere. It seems everyone is here.
The foyer is a mass of people zigzagging past each other, coming to and from the bar, heading up the stairs, coming back down. It’s the busiest hotel I’ve ever seen. On a colossal frown, I head into the bar. It’s just as busy. Mario is frantic, serving, shaking, pouring. It’s Tuesday night, a notoriously quiet evening. What gives?
I wander around the back of the bar and help myself to a water. “Mr. Jesse,” Mario sings, ever happy, even when he’s run off his Italian feet.
“What’s going on, Mario?” I ask, motioning to the crowd.
“I not know,” he says, getting back to the masses of people waiting to be served.