This Man Confessed (This Man 3)

‘I have no f**king clue, Ava.’ He places my foot down and picks up the other. ‘I’m dealing with it, so don’t worry your pretty little head.’

‘How are you dealing with it?’ I can’t help the question. I really want to know because something tells me that like most of Jesse’s ways, it won’t be conventional.

As I knew I would, I get landed with a warning look, and I’m mindful that by pushing this, I may very well get tossed off Central Jesse Cloud Nine before we arrive back in London.

I soak up his reproachful look for a few moments, not backing down or wiping the expectant look from my face, and yet I know I won’t be given a satisfying reply. I’ve already quietly accepted that, and I’ve also already mentally agreed not to pursue it. ‘End of.’ he says simply, and I know it really is.

So I relax and let him finish the intricate task of painting my toenails as I silently appreciate both his attentiveness and the fact that he’s scrunched over, leaning down close to carry out his task, yet there is not a roll of fat on that stomach, whatsoever.

‘You’re done.’ he declares, screwing the lid back on. ‘I’m even amazing at this.’ There is no humour in his tone.

I pull my feet up and lean over to take a look, half expecting to see a set of pink coloured feet, but no. Jesse is, indeed, amazing at painting toenails as well as everything else, except cooking. ‘Not bad,’ I flip casually, feigning the wiping of some stray polish that isn’t even there.

‘Not bad? I’ve done a better job than you’d ever do, lady.’ He jumps up from the bed. ‘You’re so lucky to have me.’

I scoff. ‘Are you not lucky?’ I ask incredulously. He’s such an arrogant arse.

‘I’m luckier.’ He winks, and I’m speedily dragged from my offended state on a sigh. ‘Come on, lady. Let’s go exploring.’

* * *

We pull off a roundabout and up to a security gate that leads down to a port. Jesse lowers his window and flashes a plastic card at a screen and the gate opens instantly, allowing him to drive through. ‘Where are we?’ I ask, edging forward in my seat to look down the road ahead.

‘This is The Port, baby.’ He proceeds at a crawl and turns onto a pedestrianized area, people mechanically moving to make way, not giving the DBS a second glance. I would’ve thought this strange, but I quickly register the dozens of prestigious cars, all parked in bays along the front. And not just the odd Merc or BMW. I’m looking at rows of Bentleys, Ferraris and even another Aston Martin, all screaming billionaires. These people are quite clearly used to ridiculously expensive cars, but my attention is speedily drawn from the row of expensive vehicles when I clock the rows and rows of boats. No, not boats. These are yachts.

‘Fucking hell.’ I whisper as Jesse slips into an empty bay and turns the ignition off.

‘Ava! Please, watch your f**king mouth.’ He heaves a tired breath and gets himself out of the car, making his way around to my side. I’m stuck in my seat, astounded by the bright whiteness of many huge floating mountains on the marina. ‘Out you get.’

I absentmindedly eject myself with the assistance of Jesse’s hand while keeping my eyes on the boats. I can’t even find words. But then I do. ‘Please don’t tell me you own one of those.’ I look at him with wide eyes. I don’t know why I sound so shocked. This man is beyond wealthy, but a yacht?

He smiles and slips his shades on. ‘No, I sold it many years ago.’

‘So you did have one?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t have a f**king clue how to sail the stupid thing.’ He takes my hand and leads me away from the car, towards a pathway where we’re safe from moving vehicles.

‘Why did you buy it in the first place then?’ I ask, looking up at him, but he just shrugs my question off and points out across the sea.

‘Over there is Morocco.’

I follow the direction of his hand, but all I see is open water. He’s trying to divert my enquiring mind. ‘Lovely,’ I say with lashings of sarcasm, just so he knows that I know his ploy. I’m drawing my own conclusions on Paradise and big yachts, but as I’ve reminded myself before, Jesse’s past is exactly that.

‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, lady.’ He pulls me under his arm and makes a meal of biting at my ear. ‘What would you like to do?’

‘Let’s mooch about.’

‘Mooch?’

‘Yes, mooch.’ I repeat, looking up at an amused expression. ‘Like browse, peruse, mooch about.’

He smiles down at me, almost fascinated. ‘Okay. I feel another Camden coming on.’

‘Yes, exactly like Camden, but no funny sex shops.’ I finish quietly.

Now he’s laughing. ‘Oh, there are plenty of funny sex shops on the back streets. Want to see?’

‘No, I don’t.’ I grumble, reflecting back to our very own little pole dancing treat by that demented, leather clad, dominatrix type. I inwardly gasp. A Sarah type. Holy shit, she looked just like Sarah, minus the whip, instead playing with a pole. Sarah may very well have a pole, who knows, but my sudden comprehension is overshadowing the similarities of the women. ‘You didn’t find that attractive, did you?’ I don’t need to elaborate. He knows what I’m referring to.

My chin is grasped and pulled to face him. ‘I’ve told you before. There’s only one thing that turns me on, and I love her in lace.’

‘Good.’ I say quietly, because I don’t know what else to say. He’s probably made the Sarah connection, too, and even though Sarah more or less confirmed Jesse’s aversion to her leather clad arse, I needed to hear it for myself and from him.