Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
All because I can’t take her pain. I want to bear it for her.
“Good, you’re not a cappuccino fan.” I feel her eyes as I mop at the dark liquid with a napkin. “I’m not surprised. Those big hands…”
I glance up, noting her lingering gaze. The way she bites the tender skin on the inside of her lip. I want to peel the plumpness from her grip and listen to her sigh as I sink my teeth there instead. Under the table, my cock throbs incessantly. How the hell am I ever going to overcome this?
Divorce. That would be Lachlan’s answer. Not that I’d ask him. He’s still lamenting the eventual cost. Eventual cost because I have no plans of ending things between us prematurely.
The choice I’ve made. The selfishness I’ve displayed. The lies I continue to tell myself. What kind of man would that make me? What kind of signal would it send?
Like keeping her here is an act of kindness.
Who knows, maybe it is masochism.
The reason—the impetus—for marrying Lavender may now have been served, but I don’t want out of this marriage. Just out of this stilted impasse. I want to be taken into her confidence. Into her arms. Her body. And I don’t know how I begin to achieve that.
Instead, I watch her. And want her.
So badly that my chest hurts.
33
LAVENDER
“What about that one?” Her small hand in mine, Daisy’s pale ponytail swings left as she points across the park to an elegant, long-haired hound, its blond locks rippling in the breeze.
“Phillipa,” I announce.
“What kind of accent has Phillipa got?”
“Well, Phillipa, daarling, has a hai-ss near Sloane Square,” I say, impersonating someone who sounds like a cousin to the King of England.
“She has a what?”
“A hai-sss,” I say, hamming it up. “Hai-sss, darling. You know, roof, windows, doors, gold-plated Hermes toilet seats, and so on.” I wave my hand like the details are inconsequential. “Phillipa is trotting along, ridiculously annoyed because Harrods food hall didn’t have her favorite Castelvetrano olives in stock. It’s devastating, darling, because she’s holding an intimate soiree at her bougie hai-ss this evening.”
“What’s a soiree?” Daisy’s nose scrunches.
“A party. A fancy one. And she just had a blow-out to impress her guests.” I shake my own mane, which isn’t near as magnificent as the Afghan hound’s.
After breakfast, Luis had driven us to Notting Hill to shop, and Daisy now owns a selection of clothes more suited to a girl in this decade. Jeans, shorts, cute sequined T-shirts, that sort of stuff.
It seems Maria has been buying her clothes—beautiful clothes, but kids need stuff they can move in, that they can get dirty in without fearing the consequences of a grubby silk dress.
After shopping, we stopped for lunch in a café before strolling through Holland Park. In the Kyoto Gardens, we’d watched the koi swimming and doffed our invisible hats to the magnificence of strutting peacocks. After an ice cream, we’d visited an exhibition at the Design Museum, which Daisy had loved. On our slow walk back, I’d introduced her to something we used to play on outings as kids—Dog Deal. The basic premise is you pick a dog, usually one passing by, give it a fictional name, maybe an accent, and a story.
“What about that one over there?”
“The white one?”
Daisy nods vigorously.
“A poodle? Too easy. You know all poodles speak with a French accent, don’t you?”
“Dogs don’t speak!” she retorts delightedly.
“In Dog Deal, they do. So ’e is Claude from Toulouse—Toulouse as in ze saucisson?” I add in the worst French accent known to man. “’E is, ow you say, désolé ’e cannot stop to ’ave ze chinwag but ’e is late to meet ’is paramour.”
“His para what?” Daisy giggles.
“Girlfriend. Zey enjoy to eat ze… viennoiseries, among other zings.” Cutting off my inadvertent smuttiness, I decide it’s Raif’s fault. Because of the lack of action we seem to be having lately. I know it’s not because he doesn’t want me.
“Now do the gray one with the big chest and short legs,” she insists.
That looks like an old English bulldog.
“Cor blimey, Daiz!” I announce, trying hard not to sound like Dick Van Dyke, chimney sweep era. “That’s Albert. Bert for short, and he’s a proper geeza!”
“A geezer?” she trills. “What’s a geezer?”
“A man. But ’e can’t stop to natter ’cause his china plate called him on the Nina Simone to meet him down the rub-a-dub.”
“That’s not even a real sentence. Just a jumble of words.”
“Shows what you know,” I reply loftily.
“People don’t really speak like that!” she insists through a fit of giggles.
“Lots of people in London do, and a dog called Albert does, too. Also, Albert wants you to know that’s not Claude’s own hair. It’s a syrup.”
“Claude has syrup on his hair?” Her feet come to a stop, and she scans the park, but the poodle and his owner are long gone.