Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
She halts, and with her wide eyes trained on me, she swallows thickly and then glances around, like she’s trying to think of a way to bolt.
Before she can, Sonia greets her.
“Hey, it’s okay,” she tells Peyton. “I was just showing Mr. Antonov around.” She smiles warmly at me. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Peyton knows what I like,” I say, having a seat on the leather sofa and glancing at the woman who’s standing in the same place, looking like she’s seen a ghost.
“Oh, okay,” Sonia says, her brows furrowing in confusion. “Well then, Peyton, please grab Mr. Antonov a drink. And here’s the menu.”
She hands me a leather-bound booklet and then looks at Peyton, who’s still frozen in her spot. I can’t help but smirk because even though it’s been over four years, the woman clearly remembers me and is affected. But then I remember how we left shit—with me leaving without a note and her moving on less than a month later—and my mood darkens at the thought of her being with someone shortly after me. Of some other guy putting his hands on her. Fucking her. I glance at her left hand, but there’s no ring on it, and my mood slightly improves.
“Peyton,” Sonia hisses, snapping Peyton out of her current trance. “Get Mr. Antonov his drink, please.”
Peyton nods and then scurries away while Sonia starts to go over the flight safety protocol with me—a standard procedure that’s required on every flight, even private.
She’s just finishing up when Peyton comes out with my drink of choice in hand. With a forced smile, she places the napkin on the table next to me.
“They didn’t have Kingston,” she murmurs. “But they had Woodford Reserve, which is almost as good.”
I stifle my smirk at the fact that she not only remembered which whiskey I preferred, but despite the way shit ended, she cared enough to find me a decent replacement since Jaimie doesn’t keep Kingston stocked.
As she sets my drink down, her lavender scent permeates the air, giving me the best damn high, and like an addict, I lean in, needing more.
“What are you doing?” she accuses, glancing up at me, our faces only inches apart.
“Smelling you,” I say, not giving a shit that she caught me. “You smell the same as you did in the Dominican Republic.”
“Well, I might smell the same”—she snaps her body up and glares down at me—“but nothing else about me is the same. So, before you get any ideas, don’t.”
She turns to stalk away, but before she can, I grab ahold of her wrist, forcing her to fall back into my lap. She scrambles to get off me, and I let her.
“Stop it!” she hisses. “This is beyond inappropriate. I am working, and you’re … you’re … just leave me alone!”
“Peyton!” Sonia squeaks out when she finds Peyton sitting on the sofa and yelling at me. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Antonov,” Sonia apologizes, the tone in her voice telling me, unlike Peyton, she knows exactly who I am.
“It’s okay, Sonia,” I tell her. “Ms. …” I glance at Peyton and leave my sentence hanging, hoping I’ll get her last name, and Sonia doesn’t disappoint.
“Wright,” Sonia answers, earning a glare from Peyton.
“Ms. Wright and I were just chatting. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d actually like to finish our conversation.”
Sonia’s eyes go wide, bouncing between Peyton and me, but then she nods and makes herself scarce.
“Now, where were we?” I say, turning my attention back to the beautiful, fiery woman glaring daggers my way.
“I was telling you to leave me the hell alone, and you were about to oblige.”
I bark out a laugh.
Fuck, I’ve missed this woman.
Nobody, aside from my family, would ever speak to me the way she does.
“How have you been?” I ask, trying to keep our conversation surface level when the truth is that I want to know everything about this woman.
I let her go once, but it’s like fate intervened, and now that she’s back in my life, I have no intention of letting her go again.
“I’ve been fine,” she says in a short tone, her gaze hard.
“And your mom?”
This time, her eyes soften. “She died … a couple of years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, reaching out and squeezing her hand, shocked when she lets me.
“I got two more years with her,” she says with a sad smile. “And Damien—” She cuts herself off and scrambles off the couch. “I really need to get to work. If you need anything, please let—”
“Who’s Damien?” I ask.
Her eyes widen, and I could be wrong, but it looks like they’re filled with fear. “I-I don’t—”
“Don’t lie to me,” I tell her. “You’ve said that name twice since getting on this plane. So, if you try to tell me he’s nobody, I’ll hunt him down and make that statement true.”