To Have and Hate
Page 33
I pull my purse higher on my shoulder and leave to the sound of cheers.
English drinkers are easily entertained. They get super excited if someone behind the bar so much as breaks a glass . . .
Back out on the street, my footsteps a quick and light on the pavement. No stomping for me. No more dragging my heels or moping. And no more tears. I’m done with all that. And after tonight, no more beers because my shirt reeks of the stuff. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to drink it again. I suddenly realise what I should’ve done. I was waiting for anger to come to me, when what I should’ve done is reached inside, past the sadness and grief and what ifs, into the very heart of me.
I’m looking at this all wrong.
I’m not the woman who was blackmailed into marriage.
I’m the woman who married a man to get what she wanted.
And I am the woman who will have her say.
All that I owe you was written into the contract.
Oh, Alexander Beckett III, you are so very wrong. And you are about to discover it.
I hail a black cab in the middle of the street, almost falling into the seat in my haste to get in. I give the cabbie Beckett’s address, but the minute the door closes, fear starts to creep back in. What had felt so certain, so right outside on the street begins to feel like the exact opposite. But there’s no going back as the taxi merges with the evening traffic. And there’s no going back because, from now on, I’m only moving forward. If he doesn’t want me, fine. I’ll learn to live with that. I mean, it’ll still hurt, because I love him. But I need him to hear that. I need him to know, to look at me as I tell him. And I need him to hear what a prick he’s been.
If he’s home.
He packed a case, my mind oh-so helpfully supplies.
Luke was most likely lying. Maybe he hasn’t been into the office at all.
He’s probably gone on vacation to escape this exact scenario; his ex turning up on the doorstep causing drama.
After all, this isn’t his first marriage rodeo.
Or maybe I won’t even get as far as his doorstep.
Maybe he’ll have changed the code for the gate.
And I’ll look like an idiot.
‘You visiting someone, love?’ the cabbie asks, pulling me from my riotous thoughts.
‘Er, yeah. You could say that.’ Visiting to deliver a smackdown.
‘It’s a nice area.’
‘It is.’ Furtively tipping my nose to my chest, I realise I smell like a brewery.
‘Got to have plenty of money to live ’round here.’
‘Really? I wouldn’t know. Oh, look, we’re here.’
The cabbie pulls a little past the keypad and I lean out of the window, pressing in the digits. My relief is great as the gates begin to open slowly.
His Mercedes is parked at the top of the driveway. I take that as a promising sign as I pay my fare and step onto the path.
I ring the bell.
And I wait, straining to hear sounds from inside.
I ring it again, keeping my finger on longer than is usually necessary.
But the door remains closed.
Doubt starts to creep in. Maybe I should’ve thought this through better. Planned to come another day. He might not be here. I could come back on a weekday morning and catch him leaving for work.
Unless he really has gone away.
With a heavy sense of failure, I lean my back against the front door and figuratively shake my fist at the universe. Then fall backwards as the door swings open.
‘Olivia.’
‘This was not how this was supposed to work,’ I grumble from my position on the floor. I look up, wondering if I’ve ever felt more foolish than this.
Probably.
Definitely.
Beckett looks . . . sweaty and unreasonable delicious. Shorts and a T-shirt. I’ve obviously disturbed him from working out. But how dare he smile down at me with that sinful half smile of his.
Just like our first encounter, I find myself being lifted up. But unlike our first encounter, my ass is throbbing so hard I’m pretty sure I’ll never get to sit on it again.
‘You’ve lost weight.’ The first thing that comes into my head flies out of my mouth.
‘A little,’ he agrees.
‘You should hire a cook. To feed you,’ I add as though the qualification is necessary.
‘I’m pleased you’re here,’ he answers, completely throwing me. I mean, throwing me more than seeing him standing here, not the sharp and thorny Beckett of our last meeting but the charming one. The one whose eyes sparkle with something other than the souls of the damned.
This is not the version I’d expected. And this is not going the way I’d wanted. Guns blazing? They’re not even unholstered.
‘Oh? Maybe you won’t be so pleased when you hear what I’ve got to say to you.’
‘Maybe not, but do you think I could speak first.’ I shrug magnanimously. Or maybe immaturely, but as he reaches for my hand, I snatch it back. He nods as though understanding before leading me deeper into the house and into his office.
‘Please, sit down. I just need to get something.’
I take a seat on one of the two chairs opposite his desk as Beckett makes his way to the other side, opening a draw and pulling out a sheaf of paperwork.
My heart sinks. This is where he serves me with divorce papers. By coming here today, I’ve saved him the trouble by presenting myself. While examining my idiocy, I didn’t notice he’d moved and is now in front of me, his ass resting on the edge, his long legs stretched out between my chair and the next.
‘First, I need to say I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorry, what?’ I’m pretty sure my response would’ve been heard three boroughs over.
‘Well, I can say it that way, but it really makes no sense.’
‘But you don’t say sorry. Ever.’
‘Apparently ever was an overstatement. And I do recall saying it to you once before.’
‘Before snatching it back!’
‘Look, do you want to hear this apology or not?’
‘Go for it,’ I say with a little huff, crossing my arms over my chest. The way his eyes track the lift of my breasts does nothing for me.
Also, I’m lying.
‘I’m sorry,’ he begins. ‘I’m sorry for walking out, but I needed the time to clear my head. To work a few things out.’
‘Apologies don’t come with qualifiers,’ I retort. ‘Or else they’re really not apologies at all.’
‘Are you going to let me finish?’ he asks a touch disdainfully, which just lights the fire under my little pot.
‘That depends. Are you going to get to the point sometime soon?’
‘I’m sorry I mistook passion for obsession.’ His jaw flexes and his brows draw together in that fierce way he has. I think his expression has less to do with the possible discomfort of forming apologies and more with the way I’m looking at him. I strive for an outer nonchalance while inside, my temperature has spiked.
‘And I’m sorry I didn’t share how I felt with you.’
‘Anything else?’
His pout a little more pronounced, he twists his upper body, reaching for the paperwork from his desk. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I loved you. And I’m sorry you didn’t get to say it first.’
‘Who said I was going to say it at all,’ I answer with a little flounce, though a flounce while seated is hardly a flounce at all.
‘You were going to, and I let my fear shut you down.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. Do you know what else I say?’
I open my mouth, but no words come out, not as he drops to his knees in front of me. Not as he places the paperwork on my lap and lifts my left hand, producing my wedding ring before me.
‘I say, stay married to me, Olivia. Not for six months, or six years, but for ever.’ His eyes are so hungry, so insatiable, they belie his next words. ‘Say yes, darling. You know you
want to, or why else would you keep falling at my feet?’
‘You really are . . . ’
‘The perfect person for you.’
As I allow him to slips my ring back on my finger, I realise there really is no other answer.
‘Alexander Beckett III, I’m going to torment you for the rest of your life.’
THE END
Acknowledgements
TBC
About The Author
Donna writes dirty stories, according to her family. She hopes you find them funny, too.
When not bashing away at a keyboard she can usually be found hiding from her family and responsibilities with a good book in her hand and a dog that looks like a mop by her feet. She likes her humour and wine dry, her mojitos sweet, and her language salty.
Catch up with her on Facebook or join her merry band of perverts readers in her little Facebook group, Donna’s Lambs.
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