‘If you were more reasonable, you wouldn’t feel out of control very often. Are you like this with all your women?’
His eyes widen, then narrow. ‘I’ve never cared enough about anyone else to feel like this,’ He picks up his coffee. ‘It’s just fucking typical that I would go and find the most defiant woman on the planet to…’
‘Try and control?’ I raise my eyebrows at him, and he deepens his scowl on me. ‘What about other relationships?’
‘I don’t have relationships. I’m not interested in getting involved. Anyway, I don’t have time.’
‘You’ve devoted enough time to trampling all over me.’ I blurt over my coffee cup. If this isn’t involved, then I don’t know what is.
He shakes his head. ‘You’re different. I told you, Ava, I’ll trample anyone who tries to get in my way. Even you.’
This I know. I’ve been trampled already when I refused to stay in. I’m glad my trampling ritual is a little different to that of others who have had the pleasure. Poor Cockney springs to mind immediately. He’s not interested in relationships? Where’s this going then?
Our breakfast lands on the table, smelling divine. Tucking in, I ponder his declaration of being out of control. The solution is pretty simple – stop being so unreasonable and challenging. He’ll keel over from a stress induced heart attack if he carries on the way he has.
‘Why am I so different?’ I ask. My voice is small.
He calves his way through his salmon. ‘I don’t know, Ava.’ he says quietly.
‘You don’t know much, do you?’ It’s all he bloody says when I try and determine a reason for his controlling ways. I spark “all sorts of feelings”. What am I supposed to make of all this?
‘I know that I’ve never wanted to fuck a woman more than once. You, though, I really do.’
I recoil in horror, nearly choking on a piece of toast.
He has the decency to look apologetic. ‘That came out wrong.’ He puts his fork down, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. ‘What I’m trying to say is that…well…I’ve never cared about a woman enough to want more than sex. Not until I met you,’ His head rub gets more aggressive. ‘I can’t explain it, but you felt it, didn’t you?’ He looks at me. I think I see desperation for confirmation. ‘When we met, you felt it.’
I smile lightly. ‘Yes, I felt it.’ I’ll never forget it.
His expression changes instantly – he’s smiling again. ‘Eat your breakfast.’ He points his fork at my plate, and I resign myself to living without the knowledge I so desperately want. If he doesn’t know, there’s not much chance of me ever knowing. Would it make it easier to cope with him if I knew what made his complex mind tick?
Regardless, he’s just – in not so many words – told me that he wants more than sex, hasn’t he? So, he cares about me. Does care equal control? And he’s never had a relationship? I can’t believe that for a second. Women throw themselves at this man. He can’t just screw them all once, surely? Christ, if he’s never fucked a woman more than once, how many have there been? I’m just about to ask this question, but I halt mid-inhale. Do I want to know? I’ve been sleeping with this man with no protection, and even though he’s told me that he’s never not worn a condom – except with me – should I believe him?
‘We need to buy you a dress for The Manor’s anniversary party.’ he declares, in an obvious tactic to distract me from my pressing questions and thoughts. I’m sure he knows what I’m thinking.
‘I have plenty of dresses.’ I sound really unenthusiastic, which is fine, because I am. I’m only half comforted by the fact that Kate will be there to help me through an evening of Sarah glaring at me and passing sly remarks. Has he fucked Sarah? I imagine it’s possible if he only fucks women once. The thought makes me stab at my breakfast a little too harshly.
He frowns. ‘You need a new one.’ It’s that tone that dares me to challenge him.
I sigh at the prospect of, yet another, wardrobe argument. I’ve more than enough options without buying a new dress. Besides, even if I didn’t, I’d find something just to avoid a shopping trip with Jesse.
‘Anyway, I owe you one.’ He reaches over the table, pushing a loose tendril of hair behind my ear.
Yes, he does owe me one, but I don’t want it because I doubt I’ll have any say in what dress he buys me. ‘Do I get to choose?’
‘Of course,’ He places his knife and fork on his plate. ‘I’m not a complete control freak.’