Chapter 1
Edie - many years later
The day my husband of fifteen years told me he was leaving me for a woman twenty years younger, I had just stepped out of my mother’s bedroom, her death rattle still lingering in my ears.
The first words out of my husband’s mouth were not ‘I’m sorry. Let me comfort you,’ but ‘I’m sorry if this is bad timing. I’m leaving you.’
Out of everything he’d said in that one cruelly delivered sentence, that was what hurt me the most. Not he was leaving me, but that he chose that very moment to tell me he was.
Granted, he didn’t actually know my mother had just taken her last breath, but we weren’t visiting my mother on her deathbed for a catch-up.
This was my, no, our chance to say goodbye to a woman who had loved us both.
Like me, my mother had seen the good in Robert. She was enamoured by him, so much so that she overlooked Robert’s less appealing traits, urging us both to seek marriage counselling to get us through our difficult patch. A difficult patch that spanned almost the entirety of our marriage.
Yet, despite following my mother’s advice, Robert betrayed me over and over again. And the worst part? I forgave him every single time. He got away with breaking my heart repeatedly because I wasn’t strong enough to tell him to stop fucking other women and go fuck himself instead.
A couple of weeks before my mother’s death, after being told at the grand old age of forty-three I was very much in the midst of the mind-fuckery and body-altering chaos that is perimenopause, I found out he’d been sleeping with his newly appointed secretary.
And this time the betrayal wasn’t a single night of impulsive sex with a nameless woman.
No, this time he’d purportedly fallen in love.
Robert completely destroyed my faith in love the moment he looked me dead in the eye and apologised for the bad timing of breaking the news he wanted to leave me, whilst my mother was barely cold.
My husband, or should I say officially my ex-husband, as of exactly two hours and forty-three minutes ago, will now only ever be a distant memory, I shall lock up in a box in my mind, never to be remembered again.
That’s what I tell myself anyway as I pick up my glass of Veuve Clicquot and down it in one go, motioning for the barman to pour me another.
“Would you like me to charge this to your room?” the barman asks, his eyes a beautiful shade of warm honey.
“Why not?” I reply, sliding my champagne flute across the bar so he can fill it up. I’ve already spent a small fortune on a night in this swanky hotel. What’s a few more pounds?
He smiles at me, and I cock my head to the side, studying his features. He’s young, early twenties, I’d say, clean-shaven, with a swathe of blonde hair, a defined jaw, and the beauty of youth.
“There we go, madam,” he says, passing me back my freshly filled glass.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I take a sip of my champagne, the bubbles frothing over my tongue as I swallow.
There’s a lot to be said about the finer things in life and how they can make you feel like you’re a different person.
This glass of champagne, this swanky bar, this decadent hotel, even the beautifully tailored suit I’m wearing all make me feel so very far removed from the person I’ve become. I like that.
“Your hair, it’s very unusual,” the barman comments, his gaze slipping to the two thick streaks of pure white hair framing my face.
The rest of my black hair is scattered with greying streaks that hang past my shoulders in thick waves.
It’s all natural and one of the things I like most about my appearance.
“What can I say? I was born this way,” I reply with a shrug.
“Are you here with your…” The barman’s voice trails off as he glances at my ring finger, which is now devoid of a wedding band.
“Husband? No. I’m recently divorced. Officially, as of today. I decided to book myself a night here to celebrate,” I explain, amused by his interest.
“He’s a fool,” the barman says, corking the bottle of Veuve Clicquot and placing it onto the counter behind the bar.
“What makes you think he was at fault, that it wasn’t me who was the cause of our divorce?
” I ask him, aware of not just his gaze, but someone else’s eyes on me.
Although that could just be because I’ve kicked off my red soled heels and perched my stockinged feet onto the rung of my stool.
Not exactly becoming behaviour for someone staying in a high-end hotel with rooms starting at fifteen hundred a night.
“You don’t seem like the type of woman to do anything that would warrant a divorce… Or deserve one,” he says.
“That’s kind of you to say,” I reply, but as much as I’m old enough to know when a man is coming onto me, I’m not in the business of sleeping with a stranger just because he’s given me some much-needed attention.
Besides, he’d have a shock if he were to undress me and find my body clad not in sexy lingerie, but high-waisted tummy control knickers and a bra that gives the impression of an ample cleavage when I’m no more than a handful.
Small tits, wide hips. The classic pear shape. Except now I have some extra weight around my middle and thighs, thanks to my chaotic hormones, and almost a year of drowning my sorrows with Rosé whilst waiting for my divorce to go through.
“Not kind, just an observation,” he replies, reaching across the bar and resting his hand over mine. “I finish in a couple of hours. Would you like some company?”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
Lately, I laugh at things I probably shouldn’t. It’s become my knee-jerk reaction to moments that deserve anything but laughter. And the worst part? I can’t seem to stop, and maybe I don’t even want to. Still, I find myself apologising.
“I’m sorry,” I say, covering my mouth with my hand as I choke back another giggle.
“Do you find me amusing?” he asks, lifting a brow.
“Not you, no. This situation? Yes, absolutely.”
He frowns. “I don’t understand.”
“There’s nothing really to understand. I appreciate your kind words and your… interest, but I’m not looking to sleep with anyone. Frankly, my favourite fruit is all I need.”
“Your favourite fruit?”
I let out another laugh, lean over the bar and grab the half-empty bottle of champagne. Clearly, he’s never met a woman who prefers her clit stimulator to an actual cock, or at least not a woman who would admit that.
“Never mind. Please charge this to my room. I’m going to go and sit over there,” I say, pointing to the corner of the bar that looks invitingly private, “So I can finish this off…” I pause, my gaze drifting to his lapel where his name badge is pinned, “Dominic.”
“And your name is?” he calls after me as I slip from the stool and wander over to the far corner of the room.
“None of your business,” I reply, smothering another laugh.
Filling up my glass, I place the bottle onto the low table in front of me and settle back into my seat.
I don’t know if it’s the alcohol that makes me feel suddenly exhausted, or the emotional drain of signing the Decree Absolute after months of negotiations, but either way, I lean my head back against the velvet banquette seat and close my eyes.
“Excuse me, you left your shoes at the bar,” a deep, male voice says only moments later.
There’s something about the timbre of this man’s voice that makes my body tingle with awareness. Thankfully, common sense reminds me that the sound of Robert’s voice had once made me feel that way too, and look where it got me.
Sighing, I roll my head towards my intruder and reluctantly open my eyes. My gaze immediately falls to my heels gripped in a hand tattooed with thorny vines, offset by a diamond-encrusted cuff-link sparkling against a black shirt.
“I bet those cost a pretty penny,” I mutter, before slowly lifting my gaze up, up, up, because damn, this man is tall. Tall, and likely to be at least ten years younger than me, given his wrinkle-free skin and non-greying hair.
Dressed all in black, this man’s suit screams tailor-made on Savile Row, and another vine tattoo with lethal thorns that curl around his neck screams danger.
And don’t get me started on the sharp cut of his jaw, lightly dusted with stubble, or his dark brown hair slicked back with gel like he’s just stepped out of an episode of Peaky Blinders.
I can’t quite make out the colour of his eyes, given the extra low lighting in this corner of the bar, but I’ve no doubt they’re as beautiful as the two deep dimples gracing his cheeks.
Whoever this man is, he has the presence of someone who not only knows they’re good-looking, but dangerous, too. I’m not sure if that’s dangerous in a criminal way, or a break-your-heart-after-giving-you-an-earth-shattering-orgasm way.
Nevertheless, despite the disturbing uptick of my heart rate, I’m not interested.
“May I join you?” he asks.
“Don’t tell me you’re my Prince Charming and I’m your Cinderella, because I can assure you, whilst those are my shoes,” I say, pointing at the offending items, “My feet are so swollen from wearing them all day that no amount of shoving them back in will make them fit. I’m not who you need me to be, so you may as well just drop them on the floor and be on your way. ”
“The name’s Dorian Crow. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he replies, taking a seat opposite me, a low coffee table between us.
He undoes his jacket, revealing a leather harness wrapped around his wide chest. An interesting choice of accessory that admittedly has my interest piqued. Though, of course, I don’t let it show.
“And I’m not interested,” I say, sitting up straighter and eying my shoes perched on the seat beside him.
“Not interested in what, exactly?” he asks, a slow smile tracking up his face.
He has an impressive chest, broad and clearly muscular, given how his shirt clings to his pecs. And his arms? Damn, they’re strong and bulging. They’re the kind of arms a woman could get lost in, a woman who hasn’t sworn off men for the rest of her life, that is.