Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75457 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75457 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Jameson is standing directly in my path, so my gaze catches his.
“If you need me for anything, you have… you don’t have my number anymore, do you?”
I look at the floor and lie, “I don’t.”
“Do you want it?” he asks quietly. “In case there’s an emergency while I’m gone.”
I don’t know how to answer that since I’ve almost texted him at least a thousand times since he left New York.
He sighs. “I’ll write it down and leave it in my room in case you need it.”
I nod. “That works.”
“I’ll be back on Sunday,” he says before he moves around me to head down the hallway. “Enjoy your weekend. I know for a fact that I’m going to enjoy mine.”
I don’t say a word because I think I somehow just pushed Jameson into another woman’s arms.
“Great job, Sinclair,” I whisper as I attach the leash to Dudley’s collar. “You lost that round. You lost big time.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jameson
I spent two days in Boston fixing everything that had gone wrong at the Carden location there. I hired a new manager, addressed the issues with the building the store is housed in and directed the employees to rearrange some of the inventory for a better customer experience.
Once it was all tied up in a perfect bow, I took off.
I needed out of the city so I could get back into Sinclair’s orbit as soon as possible.
While I was in Boston, the urge to text her was strong, but since she didn’t ask for my number, I resisted reaching out.
The divide between us is still vast. I may never be able to repair it, but the trip away showed me that I miss her whenever I’m not in the same city as she is.
The restless feeling I couldn’t shake when I left Manhattan two years ago came rushing back this weekend.
That’s why I traded my Sunday afternoon plane ticket for a first class seat on a Saturday evening flight.
The doorman greets me as I exit a black SUV. That was courtesy of Kalon. He arranged for one of Beaumont’s drivers to meet me at the airport. He also took care of my accommodations at one of the Beaumont hotels in Boston. He set me up in an executive suite that offered a great view of the harbor and a mini-bar to rival any well-stocked pub in Manhattan.
I didn’t consume a drop of alcohol, though. I wanted a clear mind so that I could get my work done as quickly as possible.
I may have told Sinclair, in a not-so-subtle way, that I was going to take a woman to bed this weekend, but that was my ego talking. I do know a couple of women in Boston who would have been happy to party with me, but I had no intention of doing anything but working.
I lost it when she mentioned her date. Sinclair is the only person who can evoke jealousy in me. The first time that happened, we were thirteen, and I watched her kiss a kid we went to school with. I envied the bastard. I still do. He got to experience something I never have or will.
“I can handle my suitcase,” I tell the doorman. “Do you happen to know if Sinclair is home?”
“Miss Morgan came home several hours ago with a guest.”
Dammit.
Walking in on Sinclair and some guy that’s not worthy of her wasn’t in my plan, but I’ll work with it. I have no problem interrupting whatever is currently happening in the penthouse.
“Thank you.” I plant a twenty dollar bill in his waiting palm.
He scurries ahead of me to press the elevator call button. I don’t know if he’s waiting next to it for another tip, but the only one I’m willing to offer is to tell him to get lost.
His head swings to the right when another resident strides into the building behind me.
The doorman takes off in that direction just as the elevator’s doors slide open. I board and suck in a deep breath.
I have no idea what I’m about to find waiting for me in the penthouse, but I can deal with it. I need to because this constant longing I feel inside for Sinclair is never going away. Time has proven that, and I need to deal with it one way or another tonight.
An empty bottle of wine on its side, two glasses with traces of red liquid left in each, and a pair of white lace panties.
Shit.
In every imagined scenario I had of what I might stumble on when I entered the penthouse, this display on the coffee table wasn’t on the list.
I drop the handle of my suitcase and march over to the table in the middle of the living room.
I stare at it, wondering what the fuck happened here.
Sinclair and the bastard she brought home with her must have polished off most of the wine before he ripped her panties off and took her to bed.