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)
“I inherited The Manor from my uncle Carmichael.”
“He died?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
The compassion on her face hurts. Perhaps she wouldn’t feel so sorry for me if she knew the circumstances. “I’m so sorry,” she says quietly, clearly struggling for anything else to say.
“Me too.” So sorry.
She leans across and rests a hand on my knee. I appreciate her sentiment, even if it’s wasted. I push back the imminent onslaught of memories and flash her a smile. I don’t deserve sympathy. I deserve reprisal. I’ve done a fine job of punishing myself over the years, all an act of self-preservation in a fucked-up sense. Hurt myself, lose myself, to escape the constant pain of my reality. To keep my past at bay. Being out of control was something I could control. With Ava, I still feel out of control, except now I have a cure. It feels like a double-edged sword. For the first time in as long as I can remember, there’s hope. I never imagined I could feel happiness again. Never dared dream I could feel alive or have a worthwhile purpose. And the one thing that gives me that is the only thing that can take it away. How the fuck do I navigate these murky, unfamiliar waters and get to the other side with my sanity intact?
“How old are you, Jesse?”
“Twenty–seven,” I reply without thought, and she sighs.
“Why won’t you tell me how old you are?”
“Because you might think I’m too old for you and run a mile.”
“Do you think you’re too old for me?”
“No, I don’t.” I’m perfect for you. “My issue is your issue.”
“I don’t have an issue.”
She doesn’t? I narrow my eyes a fraction and turn them onto her. “Then stop asking me.” My lips quirk when her face screws up in displeasure.
“What about your parents?”
The question comes from left field, and I am far from prepared for it. Then again, am I really prepared for anything where Ava’s concerned? “I don’t see them,” I reply frankly, hoping that’ll be that.
My hopes are answered. She leans back in her seat, falling silent, and I feel like an arsehole once again. It doesn’t prompt me to correct myself though, and the rest of the journey is cloaked in an awkward silence that isn’t perfect and doesn’t suit us. I can’t expect anything less. I was short with her, and if I’m not careful she’ll be leaving me for being so fucking cagey.
* * *
As I rumble down the driveway slowly, I see John’s Range Rover up ahead, the big guy slipping out. I don’t know why he doesn’t just move into The Manor. He only goes home to trim his bonsai trees.
I park next to him and claim Ava. “What’s happening, John?”
“’S’all good,” he grunts, extending his hand for me to slap as we pass. All good. Quiet as I’d expected, but I needed to check. I take Ava into the bar and find my staff washing glasses. Pete, understandably, is surprised to see me.
“Mr. Ward,” he says, tilting his head in question.
“We’ll take breakfast in my office.” I reach across the bar for a menu. “What do you fancy, baby?” I ask, looking down at her. It might be me, but she looks pensive. “Except me, of course,” I add, trying to loosen her up a little.
She smiles. “Do you serve eggs Benedict here?”
“We do,” I confirm, and if we didn’t, I’d have Pete fix that. Anything for her. “Coffee?”
“Cappuccino, no chocolate or sugar.”
“And a flat white for me,” I say, passing the menu to Pete. He’s looking at me like I might have a colossal zit on the end of my nose. It’s warranted. It’s ten on a Sunday morning. I don’t think I’ve ever been around at this time on a Sunday. And with a woman? A woman whom I’m calling baby, looking at adoringly, and feeding? “Pete?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Thanks.” I look at Ava and notice her wary gaze around the bar. She’s definitely uneasy. Perhaps she’s remembering the last time she was standing in this very spot after I’d cornered her in my suite. Or is she still stung from my snappy reply in the car?
I swipe up her hand and pull her along, my pace urgent, Ava practically jogging to keep up with me. I reach my office, swing the door open, tug her inside, throw it shut, and push her against it.
Fix it.
I grab the hem of her cream dress and pull it to her waist, planting my face in her neck.
I’m sorry.
I just need some time to figure this out.
My plan works just as I’d hoped. She’s mine in a heartbeat, grappling at my T-shirt, her breath diminishing. I kiss her hard, molding her boobs, my despondency fading, quickly replaced with hunger. Starvation. Need. “Are you wet?”
“Yes.” She yanks at my T-shirt, and her urgency spurs my own. Her desperation is like a shot of adrenalin. She wants our normal back too, and our normal is this unrestrained wildness. We can’t get enough of each other, and I’m banking on that to carry us through.