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)
How easy it would be to never open them again. To never be interrupted. I’m jarred by the thought. But . . . doesn’t all my stress, the altercations, my disagreements, lead back to The Manor? The ancient, handsome, sprawling building has always been my life. Like it was Uncle Carmichael’s. But he had a woman who welcomed the hedonistic lifestyle he chose to lead. Joined in. I do not, and I don’t want one. My purpose and passion now lie outside the gates of The Manor. I’m growing detached, feeling like I no longer need this place. But many do.
So the gates will continue to open.
31
The Tesco ten miles down the road didn’t have the specific whiskey Clive’s apparently requested. Neither did the Asda ten miles away from there. Neither did the Sainsburys five miles from there. We’re now in a Waitrose three miles from the Sainsburys.
I could have gone to Scotland quicker and picked one up from the fucking distillery. “Just get him this one,” I say, holding up a bottle of Glenmorangie.
Ava examines the label, her frustration clear in all the lines on her forehead. “No, it has to be the Port Wood Finish. It’s a special one.”
Well, isn’t that obvious since we can’t fucking find it. I sigh and put the bottle back on the shelf, scrubbing my hands down my face and trudging slowly after her as she scans every shelf, high and low. I check my watch. At this rate, there will be no alone time at all. And that fucking sucks. “Ava, baby, I’m dying here.”
“I’ve got to find it,” she grates, her fists clenching as she turns a frustrated look my way. “I will not give up.”
For some reason, her words hit me harder than perhaps they should. She won’t give up. Isn’t that something I love so desperately about her? Grit. Determination. Commitment. Devotion. Whether that be to find whiskey or stay with me. They’re all things I also truly need from her. Does that determination drive me completely mad at times? Yes. But it’s something so equally beautiful about her as well. She’s amazing.
“Jesse?”
I blink, seeing Ava’s frustration has turned into a frown.
“Are you okay?”
I match her frown and reach up to my forehead, rubbing the back of my hand across the dampness. A stressed sweat? “Yeah.” I gather myself, glancing around. “Come on.” I claim her hand and march us out of the supermarket to the car.
“Where are we going?” she asks, pulling her belt on as I reverse out of the parking space.
“To a place where I hope we can find the unicorn of fucking whiskeys,” I mutter, and she laughs lightly. “Fuck!” I slam on the brakes, narrowly missing a blue Ford that seems to come out of nowhere.
“Fucking hell,” Ava breathes, her arms instinctively braced against the dashboard. I slowly turn displeased eyes onto her, and she smiles awkwardly. “Well, you should watch where you’re going.”
“I was.” I spin the wheel and slam my Aston into Drive, pulling away. “She appeared from nowhere.”
“Love how you assume it was a she,” she muses, reaching into her handbag and pulling out her lip gloss.
“I know it was a woman because I saw her blond hair.” I’m not having her peg me as a bigoted pig. Although, to be fair, it would be a flimsy claim from Little Miss Independent. Just because I’m a bit traditional, doesn’t make me chauvinistic. “And I’m giving you a fair warning.”
“Oh?” she mumbles through taut lips as she applies her gloss. I don’t know why, it’ll be wiped off soon. “What’s that?”
“There are two liquor stores on a street in Mayfair. Old. Traditional. If we don’t find it in any of those, we go home and order it online.”
“Sounds fair.”
I look at her, shocked. “You’re being rather amenable.” Perhaps today should be the day I ask her to be mine forever. Fuck you, John.
“I’m tired of shopping,” she says over a small smile and a teasing pop of her lips.
“But not tired, right?”
She laughs. “You mean too tired for you to have your way?”
I laugh too, and it’s a loud, rich sound, one that I’ve not heard from myself all too much. Only Ava can spike it. “Have my way?” She’s talking like it’s not her way too. “What about your way?” I ask, splitting my attention between her and the road.
Her eyes drift down my seated form, her body turning a little in the seat to face me. “What about my way?”
Oh, she wants to go into details? “How do you like it, baby?”
She hums, head tilting from side to side in thought, her hand slipping onto my thigh and stroking. I stiffen in my seat. “Old,” she whispers, retracting her touch and returning her body forward.
“You think you’re funny, huh?” I ask, not insulted, just really fucking happy and content at how easy moments like this are with her. Moments when we simply enjoy being ridiculous because it’s safe to be. It’s ironic, really. Easy, but the most difficult thing ever. I reach across the car and find her tickle spot, digging in.