Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
“Jude,” I call. “Jude, stop.”
He doesn’t.
My heart races, my lips sore from his forceful kiss. He’s sorry? The door closes behind him, and I glance around the empty space, lost. What now? Does he want me to leave? Stay? And does it matter? What do I want to do?
I want to go after him and nail him down, press him to kill this curiosity inside, answer all my questions, tell me where this is going.
But that would be dumb. After all, we’re nothing, just two people with an inexorable chemistry who are exploring it.
Right?
I don’t know!
I snatch my robe down and cover myself, leaving the spa and making my way through the glass corridor, stopping when I pass the gym. I see him lying on a bench at the far end, away from everyone else, doing chest presses, his pace rapid and smooth. Exorcising his anger. My God, Jude Harrison, what is going on in that head of yours?
I carry on to the changing rooms and get my phone, calling Abbie and Charley. The moment they both see my face, they start firing questions, none of which I can or want to answer. Which begs the question of why I called them.
“It’s been . . . intense,” I say, feeling so pathetic. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what he wants, what he expects.” I laugh. “I don’t even know what I want or expect.”
“Oh dear,” Charley breathes.
“Then talk to him,” Abbie blurts.
Sounds easy, doesn’t it? But, I admit, I’m scared about what he might say. And what I might confess.
I met this guy a couple of weeks ago, and it’s been a roller coaster since. And frighteningly, I fear this is just the start of the ride. A thrilling but scary ride.
I should get off the roller coaster. I don’t need or want this kind of complication in my life. The aftermath, this uncertainty, isn’t why I came to Arlington Hall today.
So why am I still here?
Chapter 18
I question whether I should go to dinner. Whether—after what happened in the steam room—he’ll even be there. But then a card is pushed under my door confirming my reservation. For two. So it looks like I’m staying on the roller coaster. I’m trying not to forget that I just walked away from a man for wanting what I couldn’t give him. And now I’m getting involved with a man who wants something I can’t give him. Control. But isn’t that okay to an extent? To allow him some control? Take freedom from the pressure when I want it? Is that how this could work? And is that realistic?
Fuck, I don’t even know.
Talk to him. Just talk. That’s my plan for dinner. Lay my cards on the table and see what he says. I can take the fling. Want to, actually. What I can’t take are the interludes of drama and conflict spiked by his mood swings and extreme reactions. Possessive.
Except I’m not his to possess.
So why the fuck am I slipping into the underwear he’s bought me?
I close my eyes, hiding from myself in the floor-length mirror, as if avoiding explaining myself to myself, as I shimmy into my satin slip dress, pulling the straps into place. The material, cut on the cross, skims my hips, falling just below my knee, the low-scoop neckline sitting only a fraction above the balcony cups of the bra he chose. I sit on one of the armchairs and slide my feet into my slingback gold stilettos and stand, taking my hands over my shoulders and lifting my hair, pushing it away so it tumbles down my back.
Ready.
But not.
I leave the suite and make my way down to the restaurant, smiling mildly at Anouska as I pass her in the lobby. “Enjoy dinner,” she says, a touch of knowing in her tone.
“Thank you.” The moment I reach the doors to the restaurant, I see him. He’s at the far back of the Orangery, at a table for two, looking out across the rose garden. As if he’s sensed I’m here, he cranes his neck and looks over his shoulder. And the moment our eyes meet, my heart turns. I’m winded. He literally takes my breath away. His face. It kills me, the raw, rugged beauty. His eyes sparkle as he gets up, revealing himself in his full, devastating glory. He’s in a light-grey suit, his shirt stark white, his darker grey tie perfectly knotted.
I’m fucked. So completely fucked. It defies reason. It defies me. This guy, in all his visual perfection, has some serious issues—I should run in the opposite direction, end this slow creep into the unknown. And yet . . .
I’m here begging for more. Begging for him. He’s definitely struggling with something, and I have an unshakable desperation to know what. I have to know him. What makes him tick, who he is, where he’s been, and where he’s going.