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Back This Woman Save as PDF
Chapters (44)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise For Jodi Ellen Malpas
  3. Dedication
  4. Prologue
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. About Jodi Ellen Malpas
  44. Also by Jodi Ellen Malpas

Her smile is small. “I’m here, aren’t I?” she says, looking away. What was that? An answer without answering? I cock my head, thoughtful, rising and closing the door. My relief, apparently, was short-lived. She’s still uncertain, and as I make my way around to the driver’s side, I wonder what else could be the cause. My age? I don’t know, but I will find out just as soon as I get her home.

10

“I’m on the first floor. We’ll take the stairs,” I say as I direct her through the doors into the main building from the car park. We climb the stairs, and the silence is constant. Has been from the second I pulled away from Lusso. I’m slowly figuring out if I give this woman too much space to think, she’ll talk herself in circles. Talk herself out of this. So I need to stop giving her space. The notion is lovely, if impossible. I realize that.

I let us in and turn to look at Ava, cringing when I see her expression. Not surprisingly, given her profession, she doesn’t like it. “It’s a pit stop,” I explain, placing her bags on the floor. “I bet you’re really offended.” I force a smile, trying to dent the awkward atmosphere. The car was bordering unbearable, Ava silent, me not knowing what to say. Talk, John said. I’ve never appreciated how hard it is to do that. I never usually have to.

She smiles meekly. “I prefer your new place.”

“Me too.”

She braves coming farther in, glancing around, taking it all in. “I don’t keep alcohol.” Anymore. “Do you want some water?”

“Please.”

I take two bottles from the fridge and turn to find she’s settled at the island. She looks small and uncomfortable. Like she’s questioning being here. It grates on me. She’s finding a problem for every solution, and I’m trying so hard not to let it rile me. I pour her water into a glass and remove my jacket, looking down at the mess that is my creased shirt. I want to smile. I can’t. I want to relish in the memories. I can’t.

I pull a stool close to her and pass her the glass, and I watch her as I sip. She’s fidgeting, refusing to look at me, playing with the glass. What the fuck has happened? She clung to me like I was life outside of Lusso.