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“Oh, I don’t know. I used to ride horses in Ireland, you know. I’d whip that place into shape in no time using one of those floggers of yours.”
I fall apart laughing at my desk, imagining Cathy, my dear, wholesome housekeeper, cracking a whip in the communal room. “I know you would, Cathy. But I need you at my place.”
“What for, boy? You’re hardly ever here for me to cook for. You drop washing off sporadically. Honestly, finding your ski equipment here the other day was the highlight of my week.”
I smile. I knew it would be, hence I dropped it off on my way through. She’s indirectly telling me that I should be at home rather than lording it up here. I’ve tried being at home. Numerous times. It’s torture of the worst degree. I’m not good at being on my own, especially when drink is added to the lonely mix which, inevitably, it always is. That rental has been sitting there for years, mostly unlived in. But it serves as a great crash pad on the odd occasion the boys and I venture into the city on a night out. My new penthouse at Lusso can’tjustbe a crash pad. Not at ten million fucking quid. “Well, my new place is somewhat larger than the rental. It’ll keep you busy.”
“And will you be living there?”
“Yes,” I reply.You’re a deluded prick, Ward.“I plan on it, yes.” I planned on staying at the rental too, but the rental is cold, sparse, and unhomely. My new place is anything but. I ignore the part of my brain that’s currently telling me Lusso will just be another discarded part on my never-ending pile of attempts to fix myself. The car, the bikes, the apartments miles away from here. They’re all supposed to help me escape. But they don’t. Nothing helps me escape. I glance across to my drinks cabinet again. Well, not reallynothing. Another glance at the clock.
“Ooh, I can’t wait to see it,” Cathy chimes. “When do you move in?”
“A week Saturday.”
“Great. I’m off to polish your snowboard.” She hangs up, and my eyes remain fixed on the clock, watching the second hand glide around the face. I roll my shoulders. Stretch my legs under my desk. Swipe a hand through my hair.Run. I should run. I rise from my chair to go change into my running gear just as Sarah strides in.
“Your noon meeting will be here soon.”
My arse falls back down to the seat. “What noon meeting?”
“With the interior designer. I told you yesterday afternoon.” She wanders across to my desk and slaps a file down. “But you had already started on the bottle.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, glaring at her. “I have a drink most days. Is that a crime?” Listen to me, being all defensive. It’s the first sign of guilt. But Sarah and I, we handle our guilt in different ways. She whips the fuck out of men, takes out her anger and frustration on them. Punishes them. Me? I seem quite content punishing myself.
“No crime,” she muses, sashaying out of my office.
“Why can’t you do the meeting?” I call.
“I’ve got memberships to deal with. When your meeting’s done, we need to go over them.” She stops at the door, looking back. “I’ll be in the communal room tonight.”
“And?” I’m not going anywhere near Sarahorher whip. Believe it or not, I do have a conscience, even if I lose it from time to time. I never lose it with Sarah, though. I won’t make that mistake again. I flinch, and by the look on Sarah’s face, she’s read my mind.
“Have a good day, Jesse.” She closes the door, and I clench my fists, trying to breathe through my anger, trying to keep my eyes off the bottles of drink across the room. Having them removed would be the answer. Clearing out my office and apartment of all temptation. But then, the bar is fifty paces from my office. And what would I offer mates to drink if we go back to my apartment?
Excuses.
I reach up and yank my tie loose, feeling suffocated. The last thing I need right now is a meeting. My head’s fuzzy. My body strung. My mood low. Shit, I need a drink.
Glancing at my Rolex, like it might offer me a different time to the clock on the wall, I groan. Another hour, I can wait another hour. I stand, remove my jacket, and unfasten the top button of my shirt. Then I sit down and slump back in my chair and stare at the ceiling as I roll my sleeves up.Another hour. Another hour. Another hour.
There’s a knock at my office door and my limp head drops as the big guy strides in. “Jesse. Miss O’Shea, Rococo Union.”
Another hour.“Perfect. Thanks, John.” My voice is hoarse. I’ll get this meeting out the way and then, fuck it, I’m having a drink. Just one. I should’ve insisted Sarah deal with this. I’m in no mood—restless, cranky, and hot.
I watch as John slowly shifts. What’s that look on his face? It’s impassive, as always, unreadable with or without his wraparounds shielding his eyes. But... I cock my head.
And nearly choke when he reveals who’s behind him. My limp body finds life and my back straightens.
What. The. Fuck?
I slowly stand from my chair, fully aware that her gaze rises with me. Is this her? Is this the woman who’s filled my new place with all that Italian shit—Italian shit that inflated the price by another million quid?
I start walking around my desk, taking her in, every gorgeous little bit of her. Well, this is a pleasant surprise. The women around here, they’re mostly mid-thirties plus. She’s, what? Mid-twenties? Too young for me.Waytoo young for me.
I nibble my bottom lip, thinking, noting her eyes still firmly set on me. She looks a little... struck. I inwardly smile.
My legs are moving, but I can’t feel the damn things. My mind is clean. My vision clear. My senses alert. Almost like when I finish a fifteen-mile run. I like those feelings, but I like them more when I’ve not had to nearly kill myself to achieve that sense of freedom. I reach up and feel my jaw. I should’ve shaved. Do I look older with stubble?
