Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“He belongs to a different world, Izzy.”
“I know that. He’s taking my son to a Premier League soccer match in his private jet.” Not to the local cinema in an aging Range Rover, which is best I can come up with as an alternative.
“Van isn’t the type to take Gertie for her morning walk,” he says, speaking about the dog he doesn’t know Niko gifted me so long ago. “He won’t mow the lawn or pick up Hugh and Archie from school—”
“So just like their father, you mean?”
“He isn’t domesticated.”
I begin to laugh. “Van is like The Tiger Who Came to Tea?” Consternation ripples across my brother’s face. “Don’t you remember? We had a copy of the book when we were children.”
Sandy turns back to mangling Holland’s tea with a harrumph. “Fine, don’t listen to me.”
“I am listening,” I reply, stepping closer to press my palm on his back. “I promise you have nothing to worry about.” Because I wouldn’t dream of burdening you with any of this. “You can’t take her that,” I say, pointing at what looks like a cup of tar. “You could probably stand the spoon up in it.”
“I’m not much of a tea drinker.”
“Hence the very fancy Italian coffee machine,” I mutter, sliding next to him. “Out of the way.” I bump him with my hip. “I know how she takes it.”
“I know how my wife takes it,” he protests slightly petulantly.
“Oh, I’m sure you do,” I retort with a saucy sideways glance at him and his disheveled appearance. “How she gives it, too.”
“Tea, Izzy,” he replies witheringly, but I don’t mention the slightly pink tinge to his cheeks. He’d probably blame the heat from the kettle or me for driving up his blood pressure. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him blush. “I’m quite capable of making Holland a cup of tea.”
“Yes, of course you are. A really bad one. You want to keep her, right?”
“Hilarious,” he drawls.
“Happy wife, happy life. Shuffle over and I’ll make her happy this morning.”
“I think I’ve already accomplished that.”
And now it’s my turn to blush. “Well, now you can do so with tea,” I say, not quite able to look up at him. Grasping the cup of dark liquid, I throw the contents down the sink. Sandy and I have always looked out for each other but making his wife tea is not the same as him shelling out thousands of pounds for his nephews’ educations. But I’ll manage. I always do. And while I might be looking at an increase in my credit card balance, it’s a small price to pay in exchange for living a life without a terrible husband.
My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
I don’t think Tom ever said such a thing to me during our whole marriage. It’s not an original quote, and I’d known those weren’t Niko’s words. The strange thing is Keats might’ve written those words from my heart because Niko makes me selfish. Going to his room last night was pure selfishness; allowing him to lift me to the dresser was pure self-interest. I wasn’t going to stop him, no matter what the sensible little angel on my shoulder said. I didn’t care about the noise we made, either. Because when I’m with Van, I worry about nothing at all. But that doesn’t make him an ideal candidate for a life partner, not that I’m looking for any kind of candidate. I have my boys, and I have my business, and that’s enough.
Van broke my heart, and while he made me no promises, it took a long time to get over him. Which is why I now see that making him my divorce rebound was a mistake, not the clever sort of payback I’d convinced myself it would be.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t partly about sex—at least in the beginning—but a cheating husband can bring a woman down low. What better pick-me-up than sex with a man who made me feel like a goddess? He hadn’t lost his touch, so it’d happened again. And again. It’s almost like I can’t help myself. But it wasn’t just the way he made me feel because life is rarely that simple. I found I still resented him for what happened between us, and I wanted to goad him, get under his skin, make him want me like I’d wanted him. But it has to end because he’s just a passing phase—a tiny slice of indulgence I’d grabbed for myself.
The kettle boils, beginning to whistle. I make Holland’s tea, setting the mug on the kitchen table.
“Hey, that’s private,” I complain when I find Sandy flicking through my sketchbook.
“I forgot you used to draw,” he replies, twisting his torso to stop me from grabbing it. “You wanted to be a fashion designer, didn’t you?”