BooksBarbecue
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

I pull up outside Kate’s, and I’m about to show my hand, tell her I want her to stay with me, when she quickly leans across and presses a fleeting kiss to my cheek before jumping out of my car at lightning speed. “I’ll call you.”

My frown follows her up the path until she shuts the door behind her. What was that? I drum the steering wheel with my fingertips. Then open the door, set to go find out what’s going on.

Don’t crowd her.

“Fuck,” I mutter, slamming it again and zooming off, my foot naturally heavy on the accelerator. What the fuck am I going to do until tomorrow?

21

Go crazy. That’s what I did. Walked circles around my apartment, typed out a dozen texts, deleted them, went to bed, and tossed and turned all night.

I woke at five, ran ten miles, paced some more, and spent most of Monday trying to reason with myself, constantly hearing John telling me not to crowd her. Calling her wouldn’t be crowding her. Texting her wouldn’t be crowding her. Dropping in to see her at work wouldn’t be crowding her.

But here’s my problem: I don’t have the mental capacity or energy to convince myself I’m being irrational. All I know is that when she’s with me, I’m fine, and when she’s not, I’m far from fine.

After calling and texting twice and getting no answer or replies, I try to convince myself she’s just busy. But after trying again and again and again, I realize she isn’t busy.

She’s avoiding me.

Again.

On Tuesday, I’m wide awake at five again, and with nothing else to do but drive myself insane with my thought process and worries, I go for another run. I have another mental argument with myself. Another minor meltdown.

My drive to The Manor passes in a blur, and because I still haven’t heard back from Ava, I text Sam, asking for Kate’s number. Surely she’ll tell me the truth. Kate’s that kind of woman—shoots as straight as an arrow. I walk into my office and find Sarah at my desk pouring over some spreadsheets. “What did you say to Ava on Sunday?” I ask, my persona aggressive, my stance threatening.

She takes in my tall frame, probably frowning, though you’d never know it. “We chatted. About the designs. Is something wrong?”

I growl and toss my keys and phone on the coffee table, dropping onto the couch. “She’s not taking my calls.”

“Perhaps she’s been busy.”