Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(86)

His eyes blaze. I recognise that expression. He likes what he sees. My skin prickles with a familiar awareness; a few weeks ago, I would have been excited by him watching me. It’s irrelevant now.

“Soph,” I say, breaking contact with Tristan. “I’m not feeling well. I’m going to head home.”

She frowns, concern etched on her face as I struggle to keep the tears from falling. “Are you sure it’s nothing more?”

Tristan is still staring at me.

I nod. “I’ll be fine. I just need to go home.” I give them both a hug good night and hurry to the cloakroom, then teeter down the stairs as fast as I can in heels. I just need to escape.

Pathetic. This is what pining over a man has turned me into. I thought I was stronger than that.

I’m a few steps away from the exit when I hear the low gravelly voice of my dreams and nightmares. “Elly.”

Slowly I turn to face him. We stare at each other in silence for a few seconds. If I open my mouth, I might burst into tears.

Up close, he looks tired. “We need to talk.” He runs a hand over his jaw. “Not here tonight. There’s too many people. I have to go to the airport directly from here to fly to Hong Kong. I’m back in two days. I’ll set something up for as soon as I’m back.”

I look away, finding a sudden interest in the chandeliers. What does it matter?

“I’m not good with apologies,” he says softly.

“It’s fine, I get it,” I say, my voice jerky. “He’s your son. He takes priority.”

“I was angry but I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I thought I lost…everything,” he says in a strained voice. “I’m sorry.”

His chest rises and falls as he waits for me to respond.

“Mr. Kane!” A voice booms from the top of the stairs, and we look up to see some senior lawyers bolting down the stairs, ready to ambush the CEO.

I take my opportunity to escape. Exhaling sharply, I push the door open into the cool London night.

I should never have given him a second chance after Greece. The second time cut much deeper. But the second time will be the last time.





29




Elly

Now I understand what it means to be sick from stress. I’ve lost nearly two kilos in one week because I’m not eating. My IBD has flared up so severely that no matter how bland the food I eat, I'm still doubled up with stomach contractions. Eating is not worth the effort.

In general, I can deal with flare-ups, it's just part of life. You put your big girl pants on— literally—and make careful lifestyle decisions. But this is the motherfucker of all flare-ups, dictating all my decisions this week.

Which is why I’m standing on a packed bus that stops at every bloody red light and pedestrian crossing and hasn’t advanced past walking speed.

I’ve never wanted a soak so much in my life. What I wouldn’t do for that Tristan’s smart bathroom with a million different spray settings. The water won't relieve the cramps or pain but if I make it hot enough it will distract me for a while.

He messaged today while boarding a flight for home. Apparently, we need to clear the air.

Could he be feeling guilty? The asshole’s probably worried I’ll have a hissy fit in the office.

I didn’t respond. Fuck you, Tristan.

I know I was irresponsible. But at least it was a mistake. What he did to me was intentional, even if he didn’t mean to hurt me. I was a rebound. Everything between us, every word, every look, every kiss, flushed away. It all meant nothing.

Today was my last meeting on the Garcia case. After travelling across London to the prison, I now have to do the same to get home.

I brace myself as the bus lurches forward again. I can’t reach any of the bars. There must be a limit to the number of people on a bus but more and more people jam in until we are packed together tighter than two coats of paint.

The stomach contractions make me want to bend over but I’m trying my best to avoid spooning the women in front of me. Unfortunately for me, the guy behind me doesn't appear to be burdened by such concerns. As he got in behind me, he pressed himself right up against me, smothering me in the stale smell of cigarettes. I take deep breaths and try to calm myself.

A violent wave of nausea rips through me. I don’t know why I bothered leaving the house today. In fact I don’t know why I bothered leaving the bathroom.

Oh dear. This is not good.

Three more stops. I can make it.

I have three more stops.

No. I’m not going to make it. I have to get off this bus. Now.

“Excuse me, sorry, sorry, sorry.” I push past disgruntled passengers. “Need to get off!” Get out of my fucking way, I’m dying.

After the longest minute of my life, the bus doors open and I limp out onto the street, doubled over.

I close my eyes and lean against the bus stop. The pain has never been this intense before. I’m scared now, really scared. What’s happening?

Every organ seems to be malfunctioning. I’m nauseous, dizzy and sweating all at once.

My insides feel like they are exploding.

My heart is beating so fast my whole body is shaking.

I want to call Megan but I’m in too much pain to reach for my phone.

I hobble over to the door of the closest restaurant. It’s an Indian restaurant, maybe. I’m too dizzy to read the writing above the door.