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)
My stomach drops. “What? What is it?” I ask, scanning her up and down, trying to figure it out as she cries and yelps. “Are you hurt? Is it the baby?”
“Look what you’ve done now,” Alan snaps, leading Lauren to a chair and sitting her down. “Now, now, darling, what is it?”
“Pain,” she cries. “It hurts.”
I stand like a useless fool while Alan tends to her. Stand and listen to her cry and wail. Puff and clench her belly.
Torn.
Guilty.
Lauren’s father takes his time with her, calming her. The tears subside. An ambulance arrives. The baby’s heartbeat is perfect. No bleeding. Nothing wrong with the baby, or with Lauren.
“What a fright,” she says, smiling, reaching for my hand.
Was she fucking faking?
“Get out of my house,” Alan barks, making me turn toward the doorway where he’s looking.
Carmichael’s there, and John is looming behind him, looking ominous. Of course they didn’t leave. Perhaps they wondered about Lauren too.
“I’m here to speak to my nephew,” Carmichael says, looking at me with . . . sympathy. It’s fucking sympathy.
“He’s busy tending to his wife and unborn child.” Alan remains unmoving.
“There’s nothing wrong with his wife and unborn child.”
Now, Alan moves forward, and as a result, John passes Carmichael and steps into the room. “We’re here to speak to Jesse,” he says, removing his shades, something that never happens unless he wants someone to see the threat in his eyes. And it’s there. Boy is it there. And so is something inside of me.
Hope.
The only two people in this world whom I can depend on are here.
Rescuing me from this madness.
9
The concierge opens the gates for me, and I pull into the car park of Lusso, my stomach doing cartwheels. Did she get the flowers? Did she like them? What did she think?
I park, get out, and straighten my new suit, taking in a deep breath, repeating the same mantra I have all day. Gently, gently. Talk to her, dazzle her. Show her she would be making a massive mistake if she doesn’t indulge me and explore the butterflies.
Butterflies.
Can’t say I’ve ever had them but, God, it’s a pretty fucking incredible feeling.
I stroll into the foyer and spot the concierge desk decorated with an elaborate spray of white calla lilies, and I can’t help but laugh under my breath, shaking my head to myself. Impossible woman.
“Sir.” A man appears from behind the desk. He’s short, gray, and his eyes travel up my front until his head is dropped back, looking at me. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here for the launch party.”
“Your name?”
“Ward.”
He goes to his clipboard, running a pen down the list. “I’m afraid you’re not down.”
“There must be a mistake.”
“No mistake,” he chirps. “And as the saying goes, if your name’s not down, you ain’t coming in.” He chuckles then stands tall, and it’s all I can do not to sigh. “It’s guests only.” Something tells me the concierge and I aren’t going to get along, especially if he tries to stop me going up to my own fucking penthouse. Especially now, when Ava’s there. I can virtually smell her in this building, in every crevice, her creative mark everywhere.
“I’m not a guest,” I tell him, walking to the lift. “I’m the owner.”
“Oh?” He peeks down at his clipboard again as I look back, smiling on the inside. “The name again, sir?” he asks, giving me his attention.
“Peter Pan,” I reply, and he scowls. “Ward. It’s Ward. Jesse Ward, owner of the penthouse.” I’m going to lose my patience in a minute. “Now, would you mind?”
“I’m going to need to see some identification.” His chest puffs out, his chin high.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, dragging my wallet out and flashing him my driver’s license. “Happy, Kojak?”
He approaches, taking it, inspecting it. I express my boredom with a drawn-out sigh, my jaw ticking. “Welcome, Mr. Ward.” He beams up at me, and I laugh my disbelief. “Let me show you up.”
“Thanks,” I grate, reminding myself that the concierge is old and here to serve me for the foreseeable. Don’t burn your bridges, Ward. “Very kind of you.” I smile, completely over the top, and he narrows an eye, reaching past me to call the lift.
I board and watch him enter the code for the penthouse. “Enjoy your evening, sir.” He exits, leaving the doors to close.
“I will,” I say, inspecting myself in the mirror, ruffing up my hair.
“Hold the lift!”
I freeze, my hand in my hair. What the fucking hell? Did she not fucking hear me? The doors open, and Sarah appears, dressed in her usual skin-tight trousers and boob-enhancing top. I give her a tired look, and she smiles knowingly, stepping in. Not surprisingly, the bulldog concierge is hot on her heels. “She’s with me,” I tell him. I should have kept my mouth shut. Let him bite at her ankles and drag her out, because I do not want her here. He backs off and the doors start to close again. “You just couldn’t fucking help yourself, could you?”