30 Days (Lost Love Trilogy #1) - Belle Brooks Page 0,5
if I’m supposed to be waiting for her return, or if I’m supposed to go. Awkward.
Looking around, I notice everything seems the same as it was the last time I visited. Fancy furnishings, a kitchen big enough for a restaurant, and oversized canvases hang on the walls. Abstract objects d’art is how Trish explains the pieces. I trace my fingers along the red felt of the pool table, and I smile thinking about the games we’ve played on this thing. So many memories. Probably why I don’t come here often.
Why am I here?
The staircase is now directly in front of me. Trish still hasn’t returned, and many voices can be heard, so I begin my entry.
“One, two, three, four, five, six …” I count under my breath as my feet hit each step. Upon reaching the top, I exhale and straighten my dress. I’m nervous. Why am I nervous? These are my friends, the friends who’ve been with me through thick and thin. Snap out of it.
A vision of blue eyes, red hair, and pale skin confronts me.
“Abi!” Sammy calls out.
“Ginger,” I croak before clearing my throat.
Sammy takes my hand in hers. “Seriously … Ginger, still?”
“Yes.” I nod.
“I hate it.”
“I know you do.”
After a few glasses of white wine, I’m relaxed. Maybe a night out, catching up with old friends, is what I need. Stuart fills me in on a new high-rise being built on the Gold Coast. Sophie shows me the fifty ways her new rock shines under different lighting, and Ange asks me how I am after the lunch situation. I reassure her everything is peachy. She doesn’t buy it but doesn’t push the issue either.
“Abi.” The call of my name comes from one Jackson Mosby, Sammy’s man candy.
“Mosby.”
“Hey, can I talk to you?”
“Sure thing. What’s up?”
His mouth is moving, but I’m distracted by his seductive dark brown eyes, chocolate skin, and dark stubble. He’s the perfect entree, dinner, and dessert for so many women, but not me—I’m not fooled by god-like men. I had one. He fucked me up. Hot men … No! All men will cause hurt at some point, it’s just a matter of time.
Mosby must realise I’m not listening to a single word he’s saying because fingers snap in front of my nose. “Stop doing that.”
“What?” I mumble with a dry mouth.
“Spacing out like you do. Why do you do that?”
If only he knew the overload of crap that plagues my mind.
“Are you focusing now?” he huffs, running his hand over the short dark strands of his hair.
“Sorry, you have my full attention. What do you need?”
“Come out onto the terrace. We need privacy for this.”
“Sure.”
“Are you okay?” he asks, hesitantly.
“Perfectly fine. It’s hot out tonight don’t you think?” Why do I feel so goddam awkward?
“Yeah, muggy. Can we talk now?” What’s got him so impatient.
“Sure, shoot.”
“Shit. Umm. Okay, so Samantha is your best friend—”
I nod, and then my heart starts to race when I realise how nervously he’s acting. Is he going to ask her to marry him? “Mosby,” I call out, loudly, even though he’s standing at arm’s length from me. “Are you going to ask Sammy to marry you?” I actually feel like I’m going to throw up when the word “marry” leaves my lips.
“No, no. Shit! Shut up. God.” He suddenly paces.
My anger builds as every second ticks by. He’s going to break up with her. I lunge towards him. I poke my finger into his tight white shirt, the tee showing off every perfectly sculpted muscle. “You’re going to break up with her, aren’t you, you dumb arse?”
“No, I’m not. Stop poking me.”
“What’s your deal, Mosby? Drop it now, or I’m going to drop you.”
He grins.
“It’s not funny, douche.”
“I’d like to see you drop me.”
“For Sammy, I could.”
“Stop. Sit down.” He points to a table in the corner with two metal seats tucked under it.
“I’ll stand. I have a feeling I might need to kill you.”
He half-laughs before sitting.
“Spill,” I demand.
“I want to move in with Samantha, but I don’t know how to ask her. I get nervous about these things.” He shrugs.
Well, I’ll be damned.
We stand in silence. “Okay, look, you know my stand on men … you are all arseholes. But Sammy loves you, and I think you care about her, so just ask. She won’t say no even though—”
“What if she does?”
“She won’t. Trust me.”
“How should I do it?”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen this insecure side of Jackson Mosby. “Just ask her. Simple.”