The Do-Over (The Miles High Club #4)(123)

He hangs on the line. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I promise.”

“Just order in tonight; don’t cook. I’m going to be late with this stupid fucking meeting.”

“Okay.”

“Why don’t you go and get a massage or a pedicure . . .”

I roll my eyes. “Really?”

“I just thought . . .”

“You thought wrong. See you tonight.” I hang up.

Idiot.

Because a massage or a pedicure is so fucking riveting. Does he even know me at all?

I throw the phone onto the couch and begin to pace. I’m so bored that I can hardly see straight. I want to be positive and love it here, but deep down I already know.

This isn’t who I am.

This whole city-living life just isn’t me.

I want to work, but then I don’t want to commit to anything until after the three months. If we do decide not to live here long term, then I don’t want to let anyone down.

What if we stay?

Hell . . . the thought of living here forever is traumatizing. No grass, no sun . . . not one thing to fucking do. I had all these hopes and dreams of opening my own animal husbandry business when I got back from traveling. I’d been working toward it for years. I was going to get an apprentice and perhaps hire a stable to work from.

But now what?

I walk to the window and look at the busy city way below . . . there are no animals here. Not a one.

Except for the paparazzi, of course.

I exhale heavily, disappointed that I feel this way. I want to love it. I want to support Christopher and be the good girlfriend that he deserves, but it’s as if every day that I stay here, I feel like I lose a little more of myself. As if minute by minute I’m watching my hopes and dreams slowly drip down the drain.

If he had just told me who he was.

I know that I’ve said that I made peace with Christopher for lying to me, and I realize that he had a valid reason for doing it.

But deep down, I’m resentful. His life is chugging along just great, while mine has come to a complete standstill.

We don’t have an equal exchange of power. It’s all about him and his life and his job . . . and how I should fit into it.

What if I wanted him to fit into my life . . . could he do that? Of course not. It’s not even an option, and I mean, it’s ridiculous to even want that because he makes so much more money than me. Of course his job should come first.

The thought is depressing.

I fell for a simple cleaner and ended up with a workaholic . . . the two men I love are worlds apart.

10:00 p.m.

The movie is playing, but I’m not watching . . . I mean, I’ve never been one to watch a lot of television, but now that it’s my only company, I’m beginning to really despise it.

I glance at the time on my phone: 10:00 p.m. . . . god, it’s late. That must be some motherfucking long telecall to Paris. Poor Christopher, he’s been at work since eight o’clock this morning. I hope he at least had something to eat before his meeting.

He works too hard.

I exhale heavily and hold the remote up and turn the television off.

I’m going to bed.

I close the automatic drapes in the apartment and watch as all the twinkling lights of London slowly disappear.

I brush my teeth and climb into bed. I smile as I smell the freshly washed linen.

At least I achieved something today.

I stare up at the ceiling as my mind wanders over the week ahead. I might go to a bookshop tomorrow and stock up.

I haven’t read a book in a while. Maybe I’ll read War and Peace and all the other books I’ve never had time to read.

It’s the weirdest thing. When I was back at the farm, it felt like I no longer belonged there, like I’d grown out of it. But now that I’m here, this feels even more foreign.

I heard the horror stories of people having trouble settling back in one place after extended travel, but it’s much worse than I imagined. Torn from a world of memories with no idea where I want my future forever home to be.

I exhale heavily. How the hell do you settle back down after a trip like that?

I need to come back to earth.



I doze for a while, and I feel the bed dip. “Baby,” I hear Christopher whisper as he brushes the hair back from my forehead.

I smile and hold my arms out for him, and he lies on top of the blankets in his full suit and nestles his head into my chest. “I’m sorry I’m so late, sweetheart.”

“That’s okay.” I kiss his forehead. “You must be exhausted.”

“Hmm,” he whispers as his heavy eyelids close.

“Did you have any dinner?”

He nods.

“What did you have?”

“A glass of scotch and nuts from my office minibar.”

I smile into the darkness. “Your dinner is in the fridge on a plate. Put it in the microwave.”

“Did you cook it?” he asks with his eyes still closed.

“No, it’s takeout.”

He smiles. “Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because I don’t feel bad if I’m too tired to eat it.”

“Shower,” I prompt him. He’s going to fall asleep in his full suit.