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)
“No, it’s the design,” she says, blasé, rolling her eyes. Another man wanders past, and my narrowed eyes follow his path, daring him to look back for another peek. He gets a good few paces before he does, and my nostrils flare dangerously. Lucky for him, he catches the growling wolf beside the beauty he’s admiring and quickly gets his wandering eyes under control.
No. This isn’t happening.
I huff and take the tops of her arms, turning her away from me and pulling the cardigan up her back, covering her up. “Will you stop?” She chuckles, batting my hands away and slipping from my reach. She might be laughing now. I guarantee she won’t be when I get her home and cut up another dress.
“Do you do this on purpose?” I position my hand over the gaping hole in her dress, fanning my fingers to cover as much of her exposed flesh as possible. I don’t want an argument. I need her in the best mood, loving me the most, when I drop my bombshells. I walk us on, my eyes scanning the crowds for potential pervs.
“If you want full-length skirts and polo-necked jumpers,” she mutters, “then I suggest you find someone your own age.”
My spare hand goes to her ribs, and she squeals on a jump. She’s joking. I think. Is she? “How old do you think I am?”
“Well, I don’t know, do I? Do you want to relieve me of my wondering?”
“No.”
“No, I didn’t think so.” She’s suddenly gone from my side, shimmying through the throngs of people.
“Ava,” I call, my eyes like laser beams on her naked back as I hurry to catch up with her, knocking people out of my way as I go. I arrive at a stall and grimace, the stench of burning fragranced sticks dotted everywhere irritating my nose. She’s reaching up for something on a shelf, but before I can make it to her to help, the stall owner—he’s definitely the stall owner, all dreadlocks and baggy pants—is by her side doing my job for me, pulling a cloth bag down and handing it to her. I scowl at him too and move in, returning my hand to her back as she rummages through the bag and pulls out . . .
“What’s that?” I ask, frowning as she flaps out a huge piece of material.
“These are Thai fisherman pants.”
Now, I’m all for plenty of material to hide her precious body from roving eyes, but, even for me, this is going a bit too far. She could cloak the entire market in the things she’s currently holding. “I think you need a smaller size.”
“They’re one size.”
“Ava, you could get ten of you in those.” And probably ten of me too. In fact, are they maternity pants? I tilt my head thoughtfully. She’d look good in maternity pants. She’d look good pregnant.
“You wrap them around. One size fits all.”
“Here, let me show you.” The hippy takes them from Ava’s grasp and kneels before her. What the fuck is he doing?
“We’ll take them,” I blurt, his face way too close to Ava’s legs.
“You need a demo,” he says with a laugh, ignoring the threat on my face and continuing with his task of getting Ava in the giant maternity pants. Without instruction, my spare hand reaches for her arm and pulls her back, and she stumbles, throwing me a displeased look.
“You have great legs, miss,” the stall owner says.
“Thanks.”
Is he goading me? Enough. “Give me those.” I swipe the pants from his hands and move Ava away from him, falling to my knee and unraveling the endless material. This is ridiculous. How do they even work?
Ava takes the pants and tucks and ties. “Like this, see?”
No, actually, I don’t. Could she be pregnant? I don’t see why any woman would wear these things otherwise. “Wonderful.” I take my eyes to her face. Her beautiful, smiling face. She could be pregnant. I inhale, shaking my head at myself and the craziness. “Do you want them?”
“I’m paying,” she says adamantly as she removes them.
I sigh, ignoring her and facing the hippy. “How much for the oversized trousers?”
“Just a tenner, my friend.”
“Is that it?” I ask, ignoring Ava’s protests. All that material, just a tenner? I shrug and slap a note in his outstretched hand, and he thanks me as I claim Ava and get us on our way.
“You didn’t have to trample the poor man. And I wanted to pay for the pants.”
“Shut up,” I order gently, getting her close, distracting her from her grievance with a few kisses to her head.
“You’re impossible.”
I smile. So deluded. “You’re beautiful,” I counter. “Can I take you home now?”
“Yes,” she answers without hesitation, and I smile but fold on the inside. The day is nearly over. My clock is ticking, and I’ve not even thought about where I might start when I sit her down at Lusso. I should start with Jake, because, really, that’s where the story that is my fucked-up, sad life begins.