This Man Confessed (This Man 3)

‘Jesse, put me down.’ I complain weakly. My meagre attempt to wriggle free is really quite pathetic.

‘I’m not putting you down, lady.’

I give in. My body is weak, my mind even weaker and my throat sore and raspy from too much shouting. I let him carry me to the car and deposit me in the passenger seat, not even kicking up a stink when he leans over to buckle me in. He mumbles incoherently as he pulls the hem of my dress down and then slams the door. I’m aware of him getting in the car, and I’m vaguely aware of the pleasant sounds of Ed Shearan, but then mental exhaustion overwhelms me and I can no longer find the energy to yell at him. My forehead hits the passenger window, and I stare blankly at the bright lights of London by night, flashing past the window.

* * *

‘Oh dear!’ I hear Clive’s disapproving tone as I come round, bobbing up and down in time to Jesse’s strides. ‘Should I get the elevator for you, Mr Ward?’

‘No, I’ve got it.’ Jesse voice vibrates through me. ‘Fucking dress is ridiculous.’ he mumbles as he calls for the lift and steps in when it opens immediately.

I come to in his arms, and then writhe to free myself. I seem to have dropped a stage of drunkenness and gone from drunk and defiant to simply difficult. ‘I can walk.’ I snap.

He scoffs and lowers me to my feet, but only because there’s nowhere for me to escape and there are no cars that I can walk in front of. The elevator door opens, and I’m the first to exit whilst fishing around in my clutch for my keys. I find them remarkably quickly, considering my disorientated hands, but getting the right one in the lock is another matter, entirely. I close one eye to try and focus as I slowly guide the key towards the lock. I hear him grumbling under his breath behind me, but I ignore him and carry on trying to insert the key. He must get fed up of waiting because there is suddenly a hand wrapped around my wrist, holding it steady and guiding it to the lock successfully.

The door opens, I kick my shoes off and trample through the colossal open space, taking the stairs carefully. When I reach the top, I don’t veer left to the master suite, instead taking a right and letting myself into my favourite spare room. I collapse in the bed fully dressed and without taking my make-up off, a clear indication of thorough exhaustion and drunkenness. I don’t let it concern me for long, though. My eyes close of their own accord, and I feel myself slipping into a drunken slumber.

‘Let’s get rid of that.’

I feel my dress being peeled from my body. I’m half asleep, I know I’m still slightly drunk and my eyes are semi stuck together with mascara. ‘Are you going to cut it to pieces?’ I mumble irritably.

‘No,’ he says calmly, his strong, familiar arms wrapping around me and lifting me from the bed. ‘I might not be talking to you, lady,’ he whispers, ‘but I want to be not talking to you in our bed.’ My arms automatically reach up and around him to hold on, and my face buries in his neck. I might be a little drunk and massively pissed off, but I recognise my favourite place. He lowers me to bed and a few moments later, he’s laying the full length of my back and pulling me into his chest.

‘Ava?’ he whispers in my ear.

‘What?’

‘You make me crazy, lady.’

‘Crazy in love?’ I mumble sleepily.

I feel him squeeze me closer. ‘That too.’

* * *

‘I love you.’

What is that? I splutter and rip my mascara clogged eyes open.

‘Drink.’ he commands softly.

I groan and roll over into my pillow. ‘Leave me alone.’ I whine, hearing him chuckle. My head is banging. I’ve not even lifted it off the pillow and it already feels like Black Sabbath are having their practice session in my skull.

‘Hey, come here.’ He curls his forearm around my waist, and then drags me across the bed, onto his lap. I feel his palm smooth my hair and pull it from my face, and I peek through my eyes to see a glass of fizzing water being held to my lips. ‘Drink.’ he presses. I let him tip the glass to my mouth, and I sip the welcome cool, fizzing liquid. ‘All of it.’

I finish the whole glass and then collapse against his bare chest. I’m truly rubbish at hangovers.

‘How bad is it?’ he asks. I know he’s grinning.

‘Bad.’ I croak. My eyes are heavy, and I’m far too comfortable to open my mind to the events that have united me and this stonking hangover—united me with this maddening man.

I feel him shift on the bed and then lean back, taking me with him. Well, at least he’s talking to me enough to look after me in my pitiful state. What sort of person punishes the alcoholic love of her life by going out and getting drunk? And when she’s pregnant, not that he’s aware. What sort of person torments her crazily possessive husband by shoving her tongue down another man’s throat in front of him? The same sort of person who hides the love of his life’s pills to try and get her pregnant on the sly, that’s who. We’re made for each other.

‘I’m sorry-ish.’ I say quietly.

He kisses my hair. ‘Me too.’ He’s brave. I must look and smell shocking. Hangover aroma can’t be the most pleasant wake up call, especially for a recovering alcoholic.

I lay in a sorry heap across him, drifting in and out of sleep and in and out of thought.

‘What are you thinking?’ he asks quietly, almost apprehensively.

‘I’m thinking we can’t go on like this.’ I answer honestly. ‘It’s not good for you.’ I leave out the fact that it’s not good for me either.