Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 157175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
‘Whatever it takes?’ I counter, just to hear her say it again. Just so I know we’re on the same page.
‘Whatever it takes,’ she confirms, nodding at the same time. She’s giving me permission. Telling me it’s okay to be . . . all of me?
‘No pressure, then?’ I quip, wondering where to start. The answer comes to me quickly. ‘Go take a shower. We’re going on a little trip.’
*
As I look up at the imposing building, I conclude that this is just as weird for me as it must be for Ava. The Manor is still The Manor, except now it’s The Manor Golf Resort and Spa. The grounds are as spotless as they were when I sold the place, and the building as impressive.
‘We met playing golf?’ Ava asks, a little laughter in her tone. ‘How romantic.’
‘There wasn’t much romantic about our first encounter, baby,’ I say, guiding her up the steps to the open doors, checking for her limp. It’s there, if mild.
‘There wasn’t?’ She sounds so disappointed, her head dropped far back, taking in the extraordinary structure. ‘You know, this could be your perfect opportunity to change that.’
I skid to a stop, looking down at her, a little stunned. She remains quiet while I fish for a response to that. I have nothing, so I pull her on, my mind spinning into overdrive. Not about her hinting that maybe I should be romantic, but because she’s shown a suggestive side, and I like it a lot. I shouldn’t, however, take that subtle hint as a green light to ravage her. Not just yet, anyway.
‘This way.’ I lead her into the bar, pick her up, and place her on a stool, trying to ignore the fact that despite the exterior of The Manor remaining the same, the interior has changed dramatically. It looks utterly shit. I gaze around, caught between resentment and reminiscence. The general layout is the same, though the décor is very different.
‘Why are you scowling?’ Ava asks. This will probably do nothing to help her remember. How could it when I barely recognise it myself?
‘It just isn’t how I remember,’ I tell her, pointing to the barman, who’s kitted out in some green penguin suit that matches the rest of the décor. ‘Mario looked much better.’
‘Who’s Mario?’
‘My head barman.’
‘Your head barman?’ she blurts.
‘Oh yeah.’ I look down at her, smiling nervously. ‘I used to own this place.’
‘You owned a golf resort?’ Her mouth hangs open as she takes a look around her. ‘The house, your flash Aston, this place. Are we rich?’
‘We’re comfortable,’ I say nonchalantly, hoping that is the end of that, for now, at least. The complexity of The Manor and how I came to own it isn’t top of my priority list of things to tell her. It’s us that’s important.
I order two waters and quietly ask the barman if I can speak to the manager.
‘Why did you sell it?’
‘It wasn’t a golf resort when I owned it,’ I say, fully aware that I’ve just opened the floodgates to an inquisition. I take the glass and pass it to her, waiting for the inevitable.
‘Then what was it?’ She takes a small sip, looking at me, waiting for an answer.
I stall, avoiding her gaze, like she might find the answer in my eyes. ‘Oh, look, a lovely painting of St Andrews.’ I point my glass to a wall on the other side of the bar, where tasteful art used to hang.
She looks over her shoulder briefly, clearly not in the least bit interested. ‘What was this place when you owned it?’ she repeats, levelling an expectant look on me.
This simple question has made me realise just how much there is for her to remember. Fucking hell, this is getting more daunting by the minute.
My arse drops to the seat of the stool next to Ava, and I sigh, long and defeated. ‘A sex club,’ I say quietly, not that there’s anyone around to overhear.
‘Pardon?’ She coughs, her glass of water landing on the bar.
‘It was an exclusive sex club for the rich and beautiful.’ I rest an elbow on the bar, propping my head in my hand.
Her lovely mouth is hanging open again. And I’m inwardly laughing. She’s heard nothing yet, and for the first time, I wonder if there are certain things that I should hold back for ever. Things that nearly broke us. Things that I would love to have wiped from her memory even before the accident. But that wouldn’t be fair. Our story is our story, after all, and I have to have faith that she got past it back then, so she can get past it again.
‘Wait.’ She retreats on her seat. ‘You said we met here.’ Her finger comes up and swirls the air around her head, comprehension beginning to dawn. The fear of her thoughts is endearing. ‘Tell me I didn’t . . .’