Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
She has been chattering about her upcoming shoots, the latest campaign she’s booked, and the magazine spread she’s been promised, and I have been nodding at the appropriate moments, but none of it has reached me. My mind refuses to engage with her.
Because – and here it is - she is not Jo. In my mind, I can still see her walking in the foyer, little brown specks of varnish peppered across her cheeks like freckles, and a rogue smattering of blue paint chips in her hair. Her eyes are sharp and alive with intelligence.
If she were here, God knows I would be reacting to her in a totally different way. It’s not that she is wildly beautiful. In fact, there is nothing about her that screams ‘look at me’. I even suspect she goes out of her way to tone it down. Her hair is locked away in a no-nonsense bun, her clothes are conservative and understated, her make-up is almost non-existent, she only speaks when spoken to, and she smells of chemicals and rabbit glue. And yet, as soon as she walks into a room, she makes every other female in it look colorless and undesirable. Her beauty is quiet, but unmistakable. It is as if there is an unquenchable fire burning inside her, and every time I look at her that fire reaches out and burns me too.
It’s not a polite desire. What I have for her is… something I’ve never experienced. Definitely not a passing fancy. It’s something darker, something primal. I want to take her, feel her against me, make her gasp, make her curse me, make her mine even for a moment. I want to make her lose control. I want to hear her scream my name. Again and again.
All fucking night long.
But I hate it. I hate that she has this effect on me. How is it that the one woman who makes me feel something is the one woman I actively dislike? And I am under no illusions that she’s the one who has ruined this night for me. I mean, yeah, Crystal is shockingly shallow, but she didn’t stand a chance compared to Jo.
The meal drags on...
I sip my whiskey and let her chatter flow over me while my mind conjures lustful scenarios and fantasies of Jo that I would never admit aloud. I feel a low heat start to simmer in my chest, a restrained desire that pulses with the memory of her violet eyes, the way she moved that day with such natural authority in front of centuries-old and priceless things. She commands them. Hell, she commands me… without even trying.
When the waiter finally sets the bill down, my date leans forward, her eyes glinting with a combination of flirtation and expectation. She’s already made it obvious that she’s willing to come home with me. A little smile, a tilt of the head, a subtle touch of the hand across the table, an invitation in its purest form.
There was a time I would have taken her home and had sex with her even knowing it wouldn’t be going anywhere, but that was years ago. I’ve grown past that silliness now. She is not what I want. And I’ve learned not to waste time on irrelevant women. She’s nothing to me. Everything I want, everything that’s consuming me, is the exact opposite of the woman before me.
I want Joseph’s chaotic daughter.
And she is the only woman I want.
I curse Jo under my breath. She has the audacity to be perfect - beautiful, clever, infuriating - and now she’s ruining everyone else for me. How the hell am I meant to find someone to be the mother of my child when I can’t get her out of my head?
Then I makeup my mind that I’m not going to waste another moment of my time with any more of these kinds of ‘dates’.
I pay the bill and ask Crystal if she needs me to call her a cab. She pouts and twirls a lock of hair around her finger, a little girl’s voice emerging as she speaks.
“Why don’t you want to take me home?”
“You’re too good for me. Goodnight, Crystal.”
I get up as her mouth drops open in shock. The cool night air hits me the moment I step outside. The city is fading into the evening.
I walk towards my car, adjusting my jacket slightly, my jaw tight, my mind still circling around the varnish-scented Jo. That girl has made every other woman I’ve met since the reading of the will utterly meaningless. Every inviting smile, every flirtatious laugh, every sparkling eye has been eclipsed by her.
And I hate her for it. And that contradiction of want and hate, that dark, gnawing pull of desire mixed with irritation, will not leave me. Certainly not tonight. And I’m starting to worry, not ever.