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)
“You don’t,” she retorts, short and annoyed. “If you did, you wouldn’t abandon me halfway to orgasm.”
What the fuck is she on? “Hey, don’t ever question whether I love you, it’ll make me mad.”
She blinks, silenced. Ashamed. It’s a mild comfort.
“Have a nice day.” I kiss her cheek. “I’m going to miss you like crazy, baby.” I wrench myself away from her before I cave in to the temptation and Ava’s tactics, and depart hastily.
And maybe because I don’t want to be around when she leaves for work and finds John waiting for her. I approach her bag that’s on the floor and stall, looking back toward the kitchen, pouting as I lower to my haunches and dip into it, pulling out her keys. I see her diary. With my attention split between the kitchen and her organizer, I flick through the pages to this week. I see her appointment with Van Der Haus yesterday, a note to email designs to someone called Ruth Quinn. I scan today’s page, then tomorrow’s. Nothing for the rest of the week. Or next. This, of course, means nothing. He could call her any time—
A sound comes from the kitchen, and I quickly drop the diary back into her bag and hurry to the door, slipping out quietly. I release air I didn’t realize I was holding. “For fuck’s sake,” I grumble as I go to the elevator, embarrassed and quite ashamed. I stab at the call button and step in, looking down at my Rolex. Where did the last half hour go? Time seems to melt away when I’m with her, and then when I’m not?
Torture.
The doors open and I stride out, stopping at the concierge’s desk. “Did a parcel arrive for me yet?” I ask the top of Clive’s hat as he rootles through a box under his desk.
“Oh, yes, via courier a few moments ago.” He appears, puffing, and rootles through another box, this one, thankfully, actually on his desk.
“How long have you been bent over that box?” I ask, alarmed by the sight of his bright red face, all blood having rushed into his head.
He ignores me and pulls out a small brown package and hands it to me, before going back to the other box under his desk. I shake my head and rip it open as I make my way outside, taking the small device over to the gang of men waiting by Ava’s car. I toss one of them the keys and pass the device to him. “Fit this on the dashboard,” I say, dipping into my pocket and pulling out some cash. “If a woman comes out demanding her car, under no circumstance must you let her take it.” I slip one of the guys a bundle of notes, holding it in his waiting palm. “Got it?”
“Yes siree,” he quips, tossing the keys in his grasp as he goes back to his van.
I hop in my car and reverse out of the space, pulling up to the opening gates just as John approaches on the other side. I lower my window and slow, and he does the same until we’re side by side. “Morning.”
He grunts, looking at his dashboard. “You’re late.”
“And you’re early.”
“I’ll take her to work, but I’m not hanging around all day watching where she goes and who she sees.”
Fair dos. I know I’m asking a lot. Hoping a lot. Praying a lot. “I’m meeting her for lunch, and I know she’s in the office all day.”
“And you know that because she told you.” He dips, looking over his shades at me. “Right?”
“Right,” I say, looking away, ready to drive off before I confess my diary hijacking shame.
“And she knows her car’s being cleaned. Right?”
“Right.” I flash him a smile, slip on my Ray-Bans and pull off, hearing a few motherfuckers tailing me.
* * *
I weave the winding roads through Surrey Hills, my car feeling like it’s on rails, gliding. I’ve been bracing myself for a call since I left John. It hasn’t come.
As I near the entrance to The Manor, a car on the other side of the road catches my eye, sitting in a small, overgrown lay-by, and I slow, looking over my glasses as I approach, reaching for my phone. I can’t see through the windscreen, the low morning sun reflecting off the glass, hampering my view of the driver. Is there a driver? Abandoned? I frown, splitting my attention between driving and getting my camera on, aiming it at the white BMW. The same car that nearly took me out yesterday when I pulled out of The Manor grounds? I snap a picture of the registration plate, my head craning as I pass, but the moment my Aston is level with the beamer, it pulls off, and I divert my attention to the rearview mirror on a mammoth frown. I’m not being suspicious. In the twenty-one years I’ve been here, not once has a car stopped by the side of the road just south of the gates. Members pull in and through the gates, and anyone else either drives straight past or pulls up to the gates. Then away when they realize it’s private property.