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)
“No,” I answer quietly. I may have looked at it. Touched it. But I will never let a drop pass my lips ever again. Not after the last time I succumbed to the enticement of escape. Not even after the day I’ve had today. My gaze falls to the desk, trying to push every shitty thing back so I can deal with the here and now, and I jolt with a start when something connects with my arm. When I realize it’s Sarah’s hand, I shoot my worried eyes to Ava. I knew Sarah couldn’t resist having a fucking poke, even when she knows I’m in absolute pieces over . . . everything.
Things are going to kick off.
“Do you mind?” Ava says, her face a picture of incredulity, and I fold, bracing myself. Two women. Both feisty fuckers. Both in love with me. This is Sarah’s domain. She will not take kindly to Ava’s frostiness or her claim on me, even though I am irrevocably hers.
“Excuse me?” Sarah asks over a disbelieving laugh.
“You heard me.”
Jesus Christ. Ava’s nearly frothing at the mouth. She’s jealous. It’s wrong for me to feel a small element of satisfaction. So wrong, but after today—Mikael, Matt—I can’t help it.
I also realize this makes me a monstrous hypocrite.
My hand throbs, and Sarah’s fingers curl into my bicep, reminding me that her hand is still there. So I remove it, casting a nervous look to Ava, seeing if she’s any nearer to pouncing on Sarah and clawing her eyes out. She’s close. And when Sarah, God damn that woman, kisses my cheek, I lock down every muscle, stiff as a board in my chair. I want to tell Sarah to fuck off. Get off. Of course I do, but I comprehend that no matter how many times I do that, she will never listen to me.
So, as much as it pains me . . .
Over to Ava.
And, sickly, I quite like green on her.
“Call me if you need me, sweetie,” Sarah says. She’s fucking asking for it.
Ava opens the door. “Goodbye, Sarah,” she says, prompting Sarah to slowly slip off the edge of my desk and walk, even slower, across the office, a certain, aloof sway to her hips, taking her sweet time. Fucking hell, the tension is unbearable.
Ava slams the door behind her, breathes out, and then faces me.
So . . . what now? A hissy fit, I expect. A barrage of questions. A reminder of who actually has the power in this relationship.
If there’s still a relationship.
Is there still a relationship?
She nods at the bottle of vodka. “Why is that there?”
I look at it. Frown at it. “I don’t know.” Maybe I just wanted to torture myself some more. I seriously do not like her disposition. She’s together, which is more than I feel. Looks pretty fucking determined. But determined to do what?
“Do you want to drink it?”
“Not now you’re here.” Cruel. So fucking cruel. And desperate.
“You walked out on me.”
“I know.”
“What if I hadn’t come?”
If she hadn’t come, I would have removed the temptation and crashed on the couch. And with that thought, I poke the bottle with my fingers, pushing it across my desk. I don’t think I have any right to sound so sure. “I wouldn’t have drunk it.”
“Then why is it there?”
Because I’m a fuck-up, obviously. Because I am incapable to being in this relationship without ruining it. Because the safety casing around my self-destruct button is broken and I’m scared to death some fucker, probably me, is going to press it and end me. End us. “I wasn’t going to drink it, Ava.”
“Would you drink it if I leave?”
“Are you going to leave me?” I ask, panicked.
“You need to give me some answers.” The steeliness is getting steelier. And here come the questions. “Why is Mikael so interested in our relationship?”
Do yourself a favor, brother. Give her the truth or, I promise, you’ll lose her and all hope I have of you healing.
“His wife left him,” I blurt quickly, praying this isn’t the beginning of the end.
She doesn’t even flinch. “Because you slept with her.”
I swallow, whispering a pathetic, “Yes.”
“When?”
Give her the truth. But the truth really could be the end of all hope too. “Months ago, Ava.” How has it come to this? Fighting for my life, but in a very different way. “She was the woman who turned up at Lusso,” I explain, hoping a little goes a long way. “I’ll tell you before you threaten to leave me again.”
Her look softens, and the strangest expression makes its way onto her face. One I never expected. Acceptance. “She wasn’t worried about you, was she?”
“Yes,” I answer, sounding willing. Feeling oddly willing too, because with each question I answer, she’s settling more, showing less signs of turning and walking out. “Probably,” I add. “But she wants me too.”