Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
“I’ll help,” Clive declares, rolling up his proverbial sleeves and getting back in the elevator.
“Very good of you, Clive,” Cathy says.
“He’ll probably want paying,” I grumble, joining them.
We ride down, and Cathy and Clive chat non-stop, while John and I remain mute, throwing each other curious looks every now and then.
Clive doesn’t help at all. He remains in the foyer wooing Cathy with tales of his boxing career in the army while John and I haul the rest of Ava’s stuff up to the penthouse. “Is it wise to leave you two alone together?” John asks, setting the final box down.
“I’m calm,” I tell him, feeling it for the first time in too long.
“You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?”
“Fix it.”
“Exactly.” He turns and takes his huge body out of my penthouse. “I’ll call you later to check everyone’s alive.” The door closes, and I look toward the staircase. I want nothing more than to go to her, hug her, apologize for ram-raiding her day, if only to get us out of this ugly rut. But I know the wise thing to do is give her space. Time to take a breath and think clearly before she does anything hasty.
Like leave me.
I take one step toward the kitchen, intending on getting some water to ease my scratchy throat, but stop when Ava’s handbag on the floor catches my eye. Or, more to the point, what’s poking out of it. I crouch slowly and pull out a pot of pills. Vitamins? I turn the white pot in my hand, looking up at the stairs. Why would she be taking vitamins?
There’s only one answer.
I inhale, dropping the pot back into her bag. Is that why she’s behaving so erratically? Her hormones are all over the place because . . .
My muscles tighten, ready to lift me back to standing, when something else catches my attention. A piece of paper, and on the corner I see a logo from a flight comparison website. The squeeze of my heart? Don’t like it at all.
I take the paper and unfold it, finding various flight times from various London airports.
All going to Sweden.
Next fucking week.
She’s leaving the fucking country, and she hasn’t thought to mention it? I don’t—
My thought process stops right there, and the worst realization slams into me, making me reach for the nearby wall to hold me up. “No,” I whisper, my eyes going back to the stairs. Sweden. Van der Haus’s new apartment block is inspired by Swedish design. “Jesus, no.” The fucker. And Ava thinks this is acceptable?
Like a bullet, I take the stairs, flying through our penthouse like a madman. I burst into our bedroom. Empty. Stalk to the bathroom, flinging the door open. She’s on the chaise in the window, her eyes glassy. She’s upset?
“What the fuck is this?” I bellow, flapping the offending piece of paper around my head.
A fleeting, very fucking telling look of panic washes across her blotchy face before she turns into Hulk with me. “You’ve been through my bag?” she shrieks. It’s fucking ridiculous. I’ve been going through her bag regularly since I met her. Her bag, her phone, and in this moment, when my fucking life is literally hanging in the balance waiting for some suave Dane to sweep on in and pull the rug from under my besotted feet, I couldn’t give a flying fuck. I don’t answer her, just wave the paper more, reminding her that this isn’t about my bad bag manners and everything about the fact that she thought she could elope to Sweden with an archenemy.
But she doesn’t know he’s an archenemy, bro. Because you haven’t fucking told her.
I mentally tell Jake to shut the fuck up and watch his fucking mouth. The fact Van Der Haus is an enemy isn’t the point. I wouldn’t be all too tickled pink about her going anywhere with any man. Least of all him. Over my dead fucking body.
Could happen, bro. You’re gonna give yourself a fucking heart attack at this rate.
Why the hell does he deem it appropriate to infiltrate my head at the most inappropriate times? If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he’s sadistically adding to my grievances, purposely reminding me of all the things I have to feel guilty about. But I do know him. He’s just trying to be my brother. Jesus, he would have grown into a sarcastic fucker.
I’m suddenly knocked out of Ava’s way as she stomps off, and I’m in quick pursuit. I want answers. I follow her down the steps, my lungs screaming for some respite, and endure the filthiest of looks as she swipes her bag from the floor and carries it into the kitchen.
“What the hell are you doing?” I yell, following her. She smashes her bag on the island and starts rummaging through. Is there more in there she needs to hide from me? “It’s not in there, it’s here. You are not fucking going to Sweden or Denmark or any fucking where, for that matter.” Let’s be clear on that.