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 lovely,” Cathy sings. I agree. Lovely.
“It will be.” I’ll shut The Manor down. Decorate the entire place, make the private suites actual suites, have all of our guests stay. It will be amazing. But something tells me Ava doesn’t agree. My cheek is burning from her hard stare, and I slowly screw the lid of my jar back on, pondering how I can convince her how wonderful it would be. I don’t know why I didn’t suggest it before. Why the hell would we pay to hire a lovely manor house in the countryside when I own a manor myself? Probably one of the most prestigious and well-kept. It’s a wedding planner’s dream. And I can only imagine Uncle Carmichael smiling down as he watches me start a new life—a life he wanted for me—surrounded by the beauty he created.
I look out the corner of my eye when I see Ava move. She gets down from the stool, plucks up something from the worktop, circling behind me. I sit up straight, nervous, but then warm and fuzzy when I feel her breath close to my ear. “Who are you marrying?” she whispers.
My secret smile drops like lead, my disbelieving eyes following her to the bin. Did she say that?
“Compensation,” I mutter like a twat, like she owes me, and follow it up with, “I’ll trample, Ava.” Because I’m not being unreasonable enough.
I glare at her as Ava glares at me. She’s going to protest for the sake of it? After everything she’s said this morning, all of the reassurances, she’s going to take this away?
Stamping on the pedal of the bin with a little too much force, the lid flies up and Ava finally frees me of her filthy look. My fucking face is aching by the time I relax it. I rub at the muscles on my forehead. This morning was going so well. No sex, granted, but all things considered, we’ve made serious headway, and now she’s going to put the blockers on for . . . what?
Part of that spirit is a need to defy you.
“Ain’t that right,” I mutter, looking up. Ava is engrossed, reading something. My blood cools. Oh shit. I fly across the kitchen and pluck it from her hand, dropping it back in the bin and taking her elbow, guiding her back to her stool. “Sit.” Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m leaving evidence of my arseholery all over the fucking place—pregnancy tests, invitations.
“Your sister?” Ava asks, her voice small, when, really, she should he throwing her sass my way, because my behavior right now warrants it.
“Leave it.” Please, leave it.
“Here you are.” Cathy, oblivious to the change in mood, places a plate in front of each of us then excuses herself to go do some polishing. I stare down at my breakfast, as ever trying to figure out how to explain myself. What to say that will make things better rather than worse. I’m no expert at talking. That’s been proven a million times over. Hence, I drown her with physical affection.
I look across to Ava’s plate. Untouched. She slips down off the stool. “Where are you going?” I ask, panicked.
“Upstairs.” She doesn’t even look at me, so she can’t appreciate the fear I’m feeling.
Always fucking running away. “Ava, don’t walk away from me,” I shout at her back. “Ava!”
“You are more than crazy mad if you think I’m marrying you, Jesse,” she says as she swings round, faster than her body should allow. It’s a sign of how mad she is. But her words are even. Resolute. And they fucking hurt. She leaves and I push my plate away, slamming my balled fist into the marble. “Fuck.” Will I ever get anything right?
I get up to go after her but think better of it and quickly sit back down. I’m clearly crazy mad because I do think she can marry me. I get up again. Sit back down. Up, down, up, down. “For fuck’s sake.” I drop my head in my hands and fist my hair. Talk to her.
Tell me we can discuss our wedding reasonably.
Okay, so she doesn’t like being told what to do and what is happening. Unless she’s under me. I roll my eyes and grab our phones, making my way upstairs, but I’m pulled to a stop when mine rings. “Hello?”
“It’s Elizabeth,” Ava’s mother declares.
I backtrack and take myself into my study, shutting the door quietly. “Hi,” I say, sitting at my desk.
“We’re here.”
I sit up straight. “Where?”
“In London.”
“What?” Fuck. “I mean, that’s great.” I laugh like a dickhead. “You didn’t waste any time, did you?” They must have left Cornwall at the crack of dawn.
“Strike while the iron’s hot,” she says.
Or turn up and try to catch me . . . what? Drunk? Punching Matt? “Where are you staying?” I ask.