Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
“Yes,” she gasps.
My dick’s screaming, begging me to put it in its favorite place, pleading for me to relieve it. I want to. I really want to. But long-term gains mean short-term sacrifices. So I detach my body from hers, mentally apologize to my cock, and leave her a panting, desperate mess propped against the wall. “Would love to,” I say, my voice low, my hard stare fixed on her flushed form. “But I’m late.”
Her realization is a beautiful thing to watch surface. Beautiful. “You bastard,” she whispers, not trying to seduce me into giving her what she wants—what we both want—because she has a point to prove. But today, I win. A little win, but it’s a win.
She swipes up her bag and pushes her way out of the stairwell, and I follow, smiling, adjusting my trousers as I watch her arse sway, her angry stomping feet giving it extra bounce.
She stops outside briefly before heading to her Mini. Here we go again.
She gets in, and I sigh, approaching and tapping the window as the engine roars to life. She takes the tip of her finger and presses a button with accuracy and a smile that would win any competition for sarcasm.
“Yes?” she says in a singsong voice.
“I’ll take you to work.” My voice is not a singsong voice. It’s a don’t fuck with me voice.
“No, thank you.” More singsonging. I growl as the window rises and she very nearly runs over my toes as she zooms out of the parking space.
“For fuck’s sake.” But I smile, because my lovely, hormonal wife—please be fucking hormones—doesn’t realize the remote fob has been removed from her car.
She stops at the gates, and I wait for the reverse lights to come on.
They don’t.
But the gates do start opening.
Huh? How the fu—?
I gasp, every muscle engaging to run after her. There’s no way I’ll make it. She whizzes out and drives off. Fuck it. “Clive!” I yell, storming back into the foyer. “What the fucking hell are you playing at?”
The old boy looks startled. Confused.
“You opened the gates!”
“Well, Mr. Ward, when a resident asks for the gates to be opened, it’s my job to open them.”
I slam my palms on his desk and lean over threateningly. “Ava’s an exception.”
“Oh. Okay, sir. Should I relay that to Casey?”
“No.” I push my way off his desk and go to my car. “I’ll tell him.” I fall into my Aston and count all the ways in which she’s defied me this morning. Endless. “Grrrrr,” I growl, leaving Lusso, splitting my attention between the opening gates and my phone, searching for the number I need and dialing.
“Good morning, thank you for calling Tea and Two Sugars, this is Bianca speaking, how may I assist you?”
I laugh out loud. “That was very professional.”
“Who’s that?”
“It’s Jesse Ward.”
“Who’s Jesse Ward?”
“That man from the café.”
“There are a lot of men who come to the café.”
Jesus. “Tall, suit, dark blond, green eyes.”
“I don’t look closely enough at my customers to note an eye color.”
I grit my teeth. “Old, rich guy.”
“Oh, Mr. Ward, how are you?”
“You’re hard work, Bianca.”
“Good morning to you.”
“Good morning.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Ward?”
“Deliver my wife some breakfast, please.”
“You mean the woman you’ve been stalking?”
“I’m allowed to stalk her because she’s my wife.” I roll my eyes, pulling out of the gates. “And she’s pregnant.”
“Oh, wow, congratulations.”
I smile, chuffed. “Thanks.”
“I’m afraid we don’t deliver.”
“It’s across the road.”
“Yes, but—”
“Two hundred.”
“What?”
“I’ll pay you two hundred pounds to make my wife some breakfast, no eggs, and deliver it all twenty yards across the road.” I raise my brows at the lingering silence.
“I am more than happy to help, Mr. Ward.”
“Thought you would be.”
“Because, of course you are one of our best customers.”
“Indeed.”
“And we value our customers.”
“Bianca?”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
She laughs. “What’s on the menu?”
I reel off my order. “And a Starbucks. Cappuccino, no chocolate.”
“We’re not a Starbucks, Mr. Ward.”
“I know, but you can pop to the one down the street.”
“What’s wrong with my coffee?”
“Nothing.”
“I haven’t got—”
“Two fifty.”
“Happy to help.”
I shake my head. “Thanks. I’ll drop the cash by soon.” I hang up, checking the time. The surgery I noted down will be open. I take a breath and call, pressing one for reception when prompted. I’m then told I’m number ten in the queue. I wait, because what else will I do on my way to pay for my wife’s breakfast?
I’m number one in the queue when I pull into Bruton Street. I snag a parking space at the top end of the street and take my phone off Bluetooth, walking down to the café with it at my ear. Bianca appears from the back, just as someone answers my call. I hold a hand up to her and take a seat at a nearby table. “Hi, yes, I was hoping to speak to Dr. Alan Pierce.”