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)
When I get back, I stand in the middle of the lounge, gazing at the cold, clinical space. It’s unhomely. Because it’s never been a home. Just a crash pad. A complete waste of money, to be honest, but my good intentions were always there when I rented it. Still are. I planned to stay here most nights but . . . well, it just never seems to happen.
I pull my T-shirt off and dump my bag on the worktop in the kitchen before pulling out a fresh jar of my vice and unscrewing the lid, tossing it on the side and dumping myself on the couch. I flick on the TV and surf the channels until I find something suitably mind-numbing to watch. Then I sigh and slump back as I have my first dip of the day.
I’ve worked my way through half the jar before I know it, and when I glance at my watch, I see it’s only six o’clock. What the fuck am I going to do all night?
Alcohol.
I cast aside my peanut butter and stand, wandering over to the cabinet, assessing each and every bottle. My hands find the side of the wood, bracing there, my body bent over, my eyes laser beams. Alcohol. Alcohol kills time and guilt. But, right now, it’ll also kill this revitalized feeling I’ve got going on.
Knock. Knock.
I straighten quickly.
“Jesse?”
My shoulders drop, my eyes turning slowly onto the door.
Fuck. Me.
I stalk across the room, feeling irritation flaring inside—it’s unfamiliar, but not unwanted. How the fuck does she know where I am? I do not want the temptation of a woman and alcohol, so there will be no invite inside. I yank the door open. “Now’s not a good time, Coral.”
She pouts. “I’ll make it a good time.”
I can’t even bring myself to smile at her suggestiveness. “How did you know I was here?”
“You’ve not been at The Manor.” She goes to pass me, but I move, blocking her. She looks up at me in question, smiling, but it’s unsure. “You’re not going to let me in?”
I shake my head.
She cocks hers, thinking. “Let’s have a drink,” she says, pushing her way past me, and because I’m not an arsehole, I don’t physically stop her. She scans the space, familiarizing herself with it, and heads straight for the vodka.
“How did you know where I live?” I ask, closing the door.
“You told me.”
“I did?” I’m pretty fucking sure I didn’t. “When?”
She pours two glasses, taking a sip of hers as she holds one out to me. “In the bar at The Manor.”
When I was drunk. I feel my jaw tense, feel that irritation flare. Why the fuck would she come here, and why the fuck would she wave vodka under my nose?
Stupid fucking question.
“I don’t want a drink,” I say, plain and clear, pacing to the fridge in the kitchen and pulling out a bottle of water. “You should go.” I turn to face her, my expression and words determined, and it’s clear as day she has not one fucking clue what to do with it. “I mean it, Coral. Go.” She needs to make amends with her husband. She needs to leave me alone.
She laughs and discards one of the glasses, slinking her way over to me, getting too close, her fingers tracing the planes of my stomach across my scar. I close my eyes, feeling the unbearable burn of her touch there. “Come on,” she coos, leaning in and kissing my chest. I look to the ceiling, calling on all my willpower. Not willpower to resist her or the drink, but willpower to stop myself from manhandling her out of my apartment. “Let’s have some fun.”
I drop my head and come face to face with the glass as she lifts it. The edge of it skims my bottom lip, leaving behind the tiniest drop of vodka. My tongue darts out and licks it up without thought, and she smiles.
Poison.
Her and the drink.
“Get out, Coral,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I’m not playing.”
I see realization dawn on her. She’s faced with a totally different man. A man in control. A man who is together. Kind of. I’m certainly still going mad, but in other ways.
She backs up, and I relax my strung muscles. “See you at The Manor.” She places the vodka on the unit as she passes before letting herself out, and as soon as the door closes, I go straight to the kitchen and yank off a bin bag, then proceed to rid my apartment of all temptation, tossing all bottles, whether full or not, into the bag, not wanting to risk tipping the contents down the sink and catching a sniff. I should never have slept with Coral again.
Fucking hell, I’m a despicable arsehole.
4
It has categorically, without doubt, been the longest weekend of my fucking life. But now it’s Monday. A working week, and I am, as a client, perfectly within my right to call her and get an update on how her quotation for The Manor is progressing.