Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
“I thought herpes was incurable?”
“It is.”
“Well, so is love,” she says, sounding exactly like our mum. “Moving away from the delightful topic of STDs.” She gives a heavy frown. “I take it you’ve come back to London because of your job and your amazingly wonderful family. Not to mention, you need to be here to meet the newest edition.” Her fingers gravitate to her bump. I’m not even sure she realizes how often it happens. “And now he’s what? Love bombing you now that you’re not together? Trying to win you over just so he can keep you dangling?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s it. Other than that day at work, I haven’t seen him. He hasn’t contacted me. He isn’t pressuring me. Just sending me flowers with these insanely lovely messages.” I put my elbow to the table and sigh.
“Printed or…?”
“Handwritten.” One shoulder lifts and falls. “He must’ve bulk-written them or something because he must be back in Paris by now.” And the kids will be in school.
Today’s arrangement included hellebores, blue delphiniums, white anemones, and a couple of sprigs of rosemary and was addressed, as usual to ‘his heart’.
Mon cœur,
Hellebores provide hope in the darkest season, and delphiniums represent an open heart.
Anemones are for forsaken love and rosemary is for remembrance.
I remember everything, and I deeply regret how I made you feel forsaken.
Despite the season your loss has left me in, my heart remains open.
P.S. I remember the rosemary with a special fondness.
Something inside me gives a throb as I remember again. The herb garden. Those tight pants and the crunch of gravel under his riding boots.
“You still with me?”
“Hm?” I snap back to the moment, and the café. “Yeah, of course I’m still here.”
“In body, at least.” Her gaze narrows as though she knows. “Why do you think he turned up at the hospital, then… nothing?”
“Because I told him to get fucked. Things ended really badly between us.”
“Things usually do,” she says, stirring her virgin mojito with her straw.
“Then why did you suggest I sleep with him?” I demand.
“Inside voice,” Lavender trills.
My shoulders stiffen, though I refuse to acknowledge my emotional outburst. Or any looks I might’ve drawn to the table.
“I suggested it because I thought you deserved a little fun. And because I thought he’d break your dry spell, not your heart.”
“He didn’t—” I halt. “You’re right.” I sigh. “Declarations were made. For what they were worth.”
“Love?”
I nod.
“You or him?” My sister’s elegant brows almost climb to the top of her head.
“Both. Only, one of us didn’t want to be heard. And maybe one of us shouldn’t have been listening.”
Her nose scrunches again. “What in the name or arse did you just say?”
“He told me he loved me in French.”
“But—”
“I know I speak French. I just didn’t tell him that.”
Lavender sits back in her chair. “Bloody hell. This is some K-Drama shit. And I am here for it.”
“I’m pleased my life is amusing you.”
“Oh, it is. Immensely. I’ll tell you something else too. It’s warming the cockles of my cold, cold heart to know that I’m not the only Whittington to have found love on the messy path.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Me and Raif,” she says to the tune of duh!
“Only, Raif married you. And he married you quickly.” Meanwhile, the man I love tried to manipulate me into screwing someone else. Only, that’s not true. He tried to frighten me. To make me run. I’m sure that’s what he thought I’d do. Idiot.
“You don’t know the half of it. Raif is… he’s as sly as a fox and I wouldn’t traumatize you with our origin story because then you might have to kill him. And I kind of like having him around.”
“I wouldn’t kill Raif. I like him.”
“I know you do but, if you knew what went on between us, you’d want to off him. I know you would, little miss sweet and innocent my arse,” she mutters. “But like I said, I love my husband, so no giving him Ebola on the quiet, m’kay?”
“I don’t know about Ebola, but I can give him compression socks.”
“Fabulous, but back to you.”
I give a deep sigh. “Things were said—”
“Love things. Things he wasn’t ready to tell you. But would’ve. Eventually.”
There’s a reprimand in there somewhere. “I suppose I thought we were going to try to make a go of things. But then he sort of turned everything on its head.”
There is no way I’m bringing up what happened in Nice. I’ll die first.
“Cold feet,” she mutters. “But he came to the hospital to apologize. To throw himself on his sword.” She stares at me. “And I’m not going to ask any other questions about his sword, though I’m guessing he knows how to use it, or why else would you be—”
“Lavender!”
“Did he at least try to explain what turned him into a fuckhead and beg forgiveness?”