Total pages in book: 12
Estimated words: 11290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 56(@200wpm)___ 45(@250wpm)___ 38(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 11290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 56(@200wpm)___ 45(@250wpm)___ 38(@300wpm)
Ignatius Corbridge.
The absolute, without-a-doubt, hands-down love of my life.
3
IGGY
Setting eyes on Jon’s primly styled dark hair and his trim figure made me nearly stumble into the porter passing me with a luggage trolly.
Unlike my own hot-mess self, Jon was dressed impeccably in slim-fit trousers and a pristine button-down. His polished brown leather shoes looked right at home on the burgundy-and-gold carpeting of the luxury train car.
I called out his name in shock, unable to believe he was really here. The Jonathan Banks I knew would never actually splurge on his dream holiday. He would have reasoned himself down to a budget-minded mini-break at the West Midland Safari Park back home.
But when I saw him hesitate at the sound of my voice, I knew it was truly him. Jon had spent twenty years responding to my voice, and it was most likely ingrained in him by now.
Which was why it felt so strange to watch him blatantly ignore it.
“Jonathan Banks,” I called, suddenly annoyed at being ignored.
This time, he turned. The hesitation was clear in the coiled muscles of his back. “No,” he said simply before continuing down the narrow hallway of the carriage.
I stared after him. ‘No?’ What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
“This way, Mr. Corbridge. Your suite is the second door on the left just here.” The porter seemed not to have caught the tension in the air between me and a fellow passenger, but I had. It had filled my lungs with sludge and threatened to choke me.
I followed the man without thinking, entering my private suite and nodding along as he pointed things out. My brain was too busy shuffling through possible reasons for Banks’s snub to pay attention.
Had he quit because he didn’t like me anymore? Or…
An idea blasted through my mind like a rogue firework shot sideways and racing straight for a crowd of people.
Was he sick? Was he dying? Had he quit his job and indulged in this once-in-a-lifetime trip because of some terrible, life-ending news?
I dragged in a breath. I needed to know if he was okay.
I thanked the butler, watched him leave, and immediately snuck out of the suite, creeping down the hallway like a criminal to the compartment I’d seen Jon enter.
I didn’t knock or even warn him; I simply opened the door… and found him staring out the window with his hands in his pockets.
There was nothing to see other than the dirty white side of another train.
“Jon…” I began hesitantly. I’d never been a hesitant person. Once I established what I wanted, I made it happen. But there had also never been a time in my life, before now, that I’d doubted Banks or wondered how he’d receive me. “Are you okay?”
He didn’t turn around, simply lowered his chin to his chest and sighed. “Why are you here, Iggy?”
“I…” How could I possibly answer his question without telling him of my desperation? Of the bone-chilling emptiness he’d left in his wake and my desire to do something, anything, to make me feel close to him again?
He shook his head and turned. His eyes roamed over me as if assessing how I looked, how I felt, whether or not I was fit enough to be let loose in the world.
It had been his job, after all. And old habits surely died hard.
“You followed me,” he accused. “On my own time. You…”
“No!” I said, too loudly. “I didn’t know you would be here. I swear. I came because I…because…” I rubbed my face with both hands before firming my jaw. “I missed you.” My voice broke a little. “And I can’t… I don’t… I…” Why was this so fucking hard? “I want to be with you.”
There. I’d said it. The words I’d needed to say to him, exactly as Lio had instructed. Now we could move forward. Banks would understand my feelings. He always had.
Instead, he laughed without humor.
“You don’t miss me. You miss having someone to clean up your messes. You miss having your life organized and handed to you on a platter, ready to eat. It’s not me you miss, I promise.”
His words reached into my chest and shredded my heart. How could he think so little of me? Of what we shared?
“You’re wrong,” I said, feeling anger well up like blood from a deep gash. “You have to know—”
“Go away, Iggy,” he said, suddenly sounding exhausted. “I came here for peace. For escape. You’re the opposite of that. It’s why I left.”
How long could a man stand in one place and continue to take armor-piercing rounds to the heart and gut?
“Can we talk about it?” I whispered.
He shook his head. I could see his jaw shift like he was clenching his teeth. Was this worse than I thought? Was it more than disinterest? Could it be… hate?