Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“I started to . . . le . . . t it go when . . .” He squints, swallowing, and it’s painful to watch. “I st . . . arted falling for . . . you.”
I clench his hand. “Good, because we’re going to be a bit busy in the not-too-distant future. I don’t want you distracted by hate and anger.”
His smile. It lights up my world, and I inch closer, scanning his face. “I’ve got you,” I murmur. “Always.”
He nods, using what little movement he has in his hands to encourage me onto the bed. I gingerly settle beside him, every muscle tense to stop myself leaning on him and hurting him. “Stay . . . the . . .”—he swallows, flinching—“. . . night.”
My smile is soft. “I’m staying forever, Jude Fuckboy Harrison.”
Epilogue
The physiotherapy is never-ending. Four times a week with a physiotherapist, an hour at a time, and every other day on his own. Or not on his own. I help. I know he prefers our own private sessions. Today is with the physio, Eric, who’s become a regular around these parts. We’re eight months into Jude’s rehab. He’s still suffering, but he plays it down. He can’t, however, hide his limp. Eric mentioned a few weeks ago that he might not ever lose it. I saw Jude’s face, his annoyance and frustration. But it’s only been two months since he stopped using a walking stick. He must give it time. Time and patience.
I pass through the lobby of Arlington Hall, back from my second walk of the day, a basket of apples hanging from the crook of my arm. Anouska’s assisting a party of golfers, and I weave through the bags of clubs on my way to the kitchens. I place the basket down. “Here you go, Chef. Fresh from the orchard.”
“Thanks, Amelia,” he calls in between beating eggs in a bowl.
I head back towards the lobby, dodging the golf bags again, and enter the Library Bar. I smile at Clinton and pick up the two glasses of nonalcoholic Amelias. “Thank you.” I wrap my lips around one of the straws and suck as I head for the spa.
“Amelia.” Anouska spots me and hurries over, flanking me as I walk. “I didn’t want to disturb Jude while he’s in his session.”
“What’s up?”
“The Valentine’s Day menu needs approving.”
“Really? We’ve not even served the Christmas menu.”
“You know Jude’s efficient.”
I laugh. “Yes, I know. So what’s on it?”
Anouska hands me her iPad. “Every aphrodisiac known to man.”
My mouth waters as I scan the set menu. “Sounds delicious.” I smile. “I approve.”
“Perfect. I’ll let Chef know. And while I have you, housekeeping has asked how many guests you have this evening.”
“I need four rooms. Three doubles and a family for Charley, Lloyd, and the kids.”
“You got it.”
“Oh, and Casey and Rhys. They’re coming too.” I see the happiness in Anouska’s eyes. “It’ll be the first time all three of them have been together on the anniversary of Evelyn’s death.”
She nods, not needing to say anything. “And have you thought any more about making your input around here permanent?” Her eyebrows rise, and I smile as I wander off. Everyone knows I’m not going back to finance. I’m too content helping around Arlington Hall. My hands instinctively go to my bump, my inhale deep, my exhale full of peace. I’m never leaving.
Jude’s still in the gym when I get there, and I watch as Eric puts resistance against his shin as he tries to raise his leg, the strain on his face painful to see. “You’ve got this, baby,” I whisper, mentally encouraging him. He must feel I’m here, always does, because he turns his attention away from Eric mid-exercise and chat, finding me. And the session is over. Eric helps him up and slaps his shoulder, throwing a towel into his bare chest.
Jude makes his way to the door, wiping his face. I know he feels the lingering ache in his leg more acutely straight after a session. His limp is particularly obvious today, but I don’t mention it.
As soon as I’m within reach, he scoops me up and carries me across his arms out of the spa. I hold the straw of his drink at his lips as I sip my own and he bobs me up and down, as if gauging my weight. “I’d say another two pounds,” he muses.
“Since yesterday?”
“Yep.”
“Jesus, put me down.”
“This is part of my rehab. Shut up.” He turns and pushes his back into a door, slurping more of his Amelia as he negotiates my body through the opening and heads down the corridor to the studios.
“I approved the Valentine’s Day menu.”
“What’s on it?”
“Sexy food.”
He chuckles. “Did you book us a table?”
“No, because I don’t know if we’ll be able to find a babysitter for the night.”