Page 199 of This Woman Forever

I frown, the zip getting jammed, forcing me to abandon breathing my desire all over her face and checking it. The zip’s fine. It’s the gap between each side of the dress that’s the problem. I bite my lip, furiously fighting to restrain my grin, knowing it’s more than my life is worth to show my delight. Didn’t I tell her she had a tummy? And did she believe me? “Oh dear,” I whisper. Not at the dress, fuck the dress, but because this is not going to improve Ava’s mood. But at least she’ll have a reason for her sulks. Funny, isn’t it? The cause for her bad mood will be the reason for my amazing mood. The babies are growing.

“What?” She looks over her shoulder, craning her neck to see. “Is it broken?”

“Ummmm...” I give it one more wiggle for the sake of it, if only to demonstrate it won’t budge. “No, baby. I think you may have grown out of it.”

She stills for a split second, taking that information onboard, before rushing to the nearest mirror on a burst of incredulous air. I watch as she scans her back, willing her to see this as a blessing. To be excited. I get it, she’s young, has a banging figure—tight, tidy, and divine. She’s worried about it changing. Keep it together, baby. We’ve got this.

“Can I put my other dress on now?” she murmurs solemnly.

I can’t and won’t enforce a different dress. She looks too overcome by the old news that she’s going to... expand. More to love. So I sweep up the short number—I’ll cut you up another day—and shake it out, being attentive and helpful as she switches back. The zip goes up with ease. This dress definitely has more give. That doesn’t make it acceptable. We should go shopping. “Beautiful.” I look her up and down, wondering if I could convince her to wear a knee-length sweater over the top. Too optimistic? “I need to scram,” I tell her, checking my Rolex. “Cathy’s downstairs and she’s made you breakfast. Please eat it.”

“I will.”

Wow. Ummm... “Thank you?”

“You don’t have to thank me for eating.” She leaves the bedroom, her mood still in the gutter.

“I feel like I should thank you for everything you do without arguing with me about it,” I mumble to myself as I follow her.

“If you were still fucking sense into me, I would argue.”

“Are you pissed because I didn’t service you this morning?” Is that the crux of her shitty mood? No sex?

“Yes.”

“Thought so.” So she feels neglected? Poor thing. Let’s fix that. I yank her into my body and catch her mouth with mine, kissing the daylights out of her, feeling her leaning into me for support. “Have a nice day, baby,” I say, sending her toward the island with a tap of her bottom, my eyes narrowed on the dress. Snip, snip. “Make sure my wife eats her breakfast, Cathy.”

“I will, boy.”

“I’ll see you later. And don’t forget to speak with Patrick,” I remind her, making a call to Cook on my way out. “Anything?” I ask, closing the front door behind me.

“I was just about to call you.”

I stop, staring at the elevator doors. I don’t like the sound of that. “Oh?”

“Can you meet?” he asks.

Definitely don’t like this. “I’m heading to The Manor.”

“See you there.”

38

As the gates to The Manor open, I take the longest breath, my grip of the steering wheel tightening of its own volition. I can’t put my finger on why. Because I know Sarah is here? Because Steve is on his way? Or simply... it’s The Manor.

I drive slowly through the line of trees, counting them as I go. Fifty. Twenty-five on each side, all evenly spaced. All hundreds of years old.

Rounding the fountain, I pull into my usual spot and turn off the engine, leaning forward in my seat and removing my shades, looking up the front of the grand, majestic mansion. It’s like I’m seeing it more clearly each day. Feeling like I need to take the time to absorb it and appreciate it. Or... what? Make the most of it while I have it?

I get out of the Aston and take the steps, slipping my keys into my pocket as I push my way in. I hear crockery clanging from the kitchens, activity of staff from the bar—all noises that are usually drowned out by the sounds of member’s chatter and laughs. The flowers on the circular table catch my eye. They’re callas. Seven, tall, elegant, white calla lilies. I trace my finger down the side of the vase, frowning. Then I pull out six of the stems and lay them on the table, leaving only one.

“Mr. Ward,” Pete says, passing with a tray of silver salt and pepper pots. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks, Pete.” I check the time and dial John as I wander through the summer room, stopping at the French doors and looking across the grounds to the tennis courts.

“Just dropped her off at the office,” he says in answer.

“Steve Cook is on his way.”