Beneath This Man (This Man, #2)(37)

I inwardly groan. I wanted to get this out of the way. ‘Sure, same time on Thursday.’ I hang up and toss my phone on the passenger seat in disgust. Irritating prick.



When I pull up outside Lusso, the gates open immediately. Jesse’s car isn’t here, which would explain why he’s not called to see why I’m not here yet.

I enter the foyer, weighed down with flowers and bags, and see Clive clicking various buttons on his high-tech surveillance system. I might just sit in one of the comfortable leather sofas and wait. What else can I do?

‘Hi, Clive.’

He looks up and smiles. ‘Ava, how are you?’

Rubbish! I’ve had a ridiculously busy day, I want to shower, get into my sweats and have a glass of wine. I can do none of those things, and I’m pissed off that Jesse’s made a big fuss about me being here and he’s not even here himself. ‘Tired.’ I mumble, heading for a big sumptuous sofa. I might fall asleep.

‘Here, Mr Ward left this for you.’

I look up and see Clive holding up a pink key. He left me a key? So he knew he wouldn’t be here and he didn’t even ring to tell me.

I walk over to Clive and take the key. ‘When did he go?’ I ask.

Clive continues clicking and switching while studying the monitors. ‘He dropped by at around five to leave you a key.’

‘Did he say when he would be back?’ I ask. Am I just expected to hang around and wait?

‘Not a word, Ava.’ Clive doesn’t bother looking up at me.

‘Did he ask you about the woman who stopped by?’

‘No, Ava.’ He almost sounds bored. No he didn’t, I know he didn’t because he bloody knows. And he’s going to tell me.

I leave Clive playing with his equipment and make my way up to the penthouse, letting myself in with my pink key and heading straight to the kitchen. I go to the fridge and yank the door open, being immediately confronted with rows and rows of bottled water. Oh, what I would do for a glass of wine. I shut the fridge door with more force than it deserves – it’s not the fridge’s fault there’s no wine in it. Will I ever have a drink again?

I sit myself on a barstool and gaze around the immense kitchen that I designed. I love it and never in a million years did I imagine I would have the opportunity to live here. Now I have, though, I’m really not sure about it. I love him, but I fear living with him will just encourage his controlling behaviour and challenging ways. Or would he be better? More reasonable?

My stomach does a little flip and a growl, reminding me that I should really get something to eat. I’ve only picked on a few biscuits today. It’s no wonder I feel exhausted.

I’m just about to convince myself to lift my tired arse from the stool when I hear the front door open, and a few moments later, Jesse walks into the kitchen looking as wiped out as I feel. He doesn’t say anything for the longest time. He just stands there and looks at me. I notice his hands shaking slightly and his brow looks damp. What should I do? My craving for a glass of wine diminishes instantly.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

He slowly walks over to me and stands me up. Reaching down, he clasps the hem of my dress and pulls it up to my waist and then grabs me under my bum and lifts me up to straddle his waist. He buries his face in my hair and walks us out of the kitchen. I can feel his heartbeat clattering against my chest as I hold onto him while he takes the stairs silently with me in his arms. I want to ask him what’s wrong. I’ve got lots of things to ask him, but he seems so despondent.

He walks us to the bed and crawls on with me beneath him, settling on top of me with his weight spread all over my body. It’s soothing. Locking my arms around him, I breathe into his neck and soak up his fresh water smell. I sigh contentedly. He might be a significant contributing factor to my stress and tiredness, but he makes it disappear just as quickly as he triggers it.

‘Tell me how old you are.’ I break the comfortable silence after I’ve held him until his hammering heart has returned to its usual, steady speed.

‘Thirty two.’ he says into my neck.

‘Tell me.’

‘Does it matter?’ he asks tiredly.

It doesn’t matter, but I want to know. He might like this game, but I don’t and it’s not going to make any difference to how I feel. I just think I should know. It is mandatory information, like his favourite colour, food or track – all of which I don’t know. I know so little about him.

‘No, but I would like it if you told me. I know none of your basic information.’

He nuzzles in my neck. ‘You know I love you.’

I sigh. That’s not basic information. I start to think about my introduction of a truth f*ck into our relationship. Something has got to wheedle this small, insignificant piece of information out of him. I know my persistently asking him is having no satisfactory results.

‘How was your day?’ he asks, his voice muffled in my hair.

‘Stupidly busy but very constructive.’ I’m quite pleased with what I managed to get done, considering I thought my day would be a bombardment of calls and texts. ‘And you need to stop sending flowers to my office.’

His head lifts and I’m greeted with a disgusted look. ‘No. Have a bath with me.’

I roll my eyes at his stubbornness, but I could think of nothing better than having a bath with him at the moment. ‘I’d love to.’