Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
My head throbs, and I know I need to grab another bottle of water.
If I had to describe her in one word, and that word couldn’t be ‘mine’, it would be ’loyal’. Not ‘coward’ or ‘weak’. Walking away from me after every word and action up until I got stabbed was loving and attached and euphoric was not about weakness. Serena gave me no reason to doubt that she wants to be with me until, like Lynette said, I went and got hurt and scared the hell out of her.
I was too strung out from pain and blood loss to think straight when she walked out on me. If I’d been able to reason it out at the time, it was obvious she got spooked and ran off.
She was afraid. I didn’t even notice, didn’t comfort her. It sickens me to realize that. As a man, I weigh myself in the balance and judge myself as wanting. She deserves more than a man with a bruised ego who blames her for his own transgression. I failed her, failed to see her terror.
I should’ve taken her in my arms and told her the truth. That my job has its risks and while that won’t change, my habits and security protocols can be altered to make everything safer, to reduce the danger. I should have assured her I could keep her safe and that I would take better care with my own life now that it matters to her. I nearly choke on shame from the profound apology I owe her.
I vault off the mat, pulse racing, wondering if this is clarity or if it’s a stroke symptom. A quick shower and I’m in street clothes. I waste minutes debating whether to bring her flowers, whether to call her first or just show up at her door. With an apology. With roses. With a damned diamond ring. With my heart in my hand.
It galls me to wait, to show restraint. But I make myself sit and dial her number. It goes straight to voicemail. I don’t leave a message. I sit and hold my phone, willing the screen to light up with a call back from her. Minutes pass, but she never calls back. Chest aching with want, the urgency thrumming in my blood, I pace the length of my penthouse again and again.
In desperation, I call Lynette again.
“You came to your senses?” she says by way of a greeting.
“You could say that. I tried to call her, and it went to voicemail.”
“Can ya blame her?”
“That’s not productive,” I frown.
“Did you think you called one of your lieutenants that you say jump and they say how high, boss? Cause you got the wrong number if you think so,” she says.
“I know better than that,” I tell her, “But I want to know what to do. To do this right, to apologize and reassure her about security concerns and the danger. Without being pushy and controlling. Like I wanna show up at her door with flowers and champagne, but something tells me that’s intrusive.”
“Intrusive, creepy as hell—whatever you wanna call it, Jacky. Do not show up at her door without talking to her first. For one thing, if I don’t know somebody’s coming over ahead of time, I don’t answer the door.”
“Okay, so what then?”
“You gotta reach out to her, be patient, be extra sweet and not pushy. See if she’ll meet you somewhere at a time that’s good for her. That lets her know that you want to make the effort for her, not that you’re trying to fit her into your schedule like you’re Mr. Important. Even though you’re Mr. Important.”
“Good point. I’ll take that advice. Thanks. And thanks for not giving me a mountain of shit about being in my feelings before. It was a weird time for me.”
“Yeah, you met rejection face-to-face. It had to be a shock to you.”
“Okay, I thanked you for not rubbing it and now you’re rubbing it in,” I grumble.
“Yeah, I know. Since you don’t have a sister, I’m here to keep you humble.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Message her, just say you are thinking of her, or you miss her. Or something that reminds you of her. Not something dirty.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t expect her to answer the first time. Wait a day and message her something else. Something sweet but not pushy. Then leave it. See if she messages you back by day three,” she says with confidence.
“Day three? How am I supposed to wait that long?” I say.
“Because you’re a man who knows she’s worth waiting for,” she says. I’m trapped and I know it. I can’t argue with that reasoning.
“All right. Thanks. And if you think about a way to get her to answer me quicker—that would be good news,” I try to understate it and show less of my desperation, but I’m not sure I succeed.