Page 30 of This Woman Forever

“Oh fuck,” he mumbles.

The female population is in mourning.

I frown at thin air. Hilarious, Jake.

“Have you seen Kate?” Sam asks.

“No.” I carry on to my office. “Try the bar.” Although I don’t recall seeing her in there. In fact, I haven’t seen her for a while. Passed out?

I stop outside my office door and take a few precious moments that I really don’t have to cool my temper. “Is she drunk?” I ask.

“No.”

I’ve dealt with Coral falling all over the place, and I’ve dealt with her falling apart. I can’t decide which is the lesser of two evils. A deep breath. The time I’ve taken, and the air, hasn’t lessened the pressure building in my head. Today? She chooses today to turn up again? What is it I said on the phone exactly that translated to an invite? Fuck it.

John’s phone rings, and I look at him as he glances down at the screen. He doesn’t have to say a word. “Take it,” I say. “I’ve got this.”

He backs away, and I face the door again.

You shouldn’t go in there.

“What am I supposed to do, let her go roaming around my wedding looking for me?” I rest my head on the wood. “Fuck, Jake, how can I make it any clearer to her?”

Don’t be mad, don’t be nice. Just be together. Be calm.

So, basically, the exact opposite to what instinct tells me to do. I push my way into my office and shut the door. “Coral,” I say coolly, walking straight to my desk and resting my arse on the edge, arms crossed. Protective. She’s on the couch, comfortable, one leg crossed over the other revealing too much of her thigh from where her skirt’s hitched up. Tactical.

Her eyes fall to my wedding ring. “You went through with it then?”

“Did I give you reason to believe I wouldn’t?”

“I don’t think you know what you’re doing.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” she asks, standing. My God, if another woman tries to tell me what they think I need, I’ll fly off the fucking handle.

“Don’t come any closer to me, Coral,” I warn. “The last time I saw you, I made it clear where I stand. Who I love.” I told her on the fucking phone too. I put her up in a hotel for days, gave her money to try and get her back on her feet when her wanker ex-husband froze her accounts. Cut her phone off. My thoughts stall. “Your phone was reconnected.”

“What?”

“You said it was cut off when you turned up on the night of the anniversary party.”

“It was.”

“But you texted me later that night.”

“I had it reconnected.”

“How?” I ask, hostile. “You didn’t have any money.”

“I...” She blinks, looking away, obviously trying to think up an excuse. She lied? Fed me a load of bullshit to make me feel sorry for her? Fucking hell, the boys were right. I’ve been played for a fucking fool. “You’re going to leave now, Coral,” I say firmly, seeing no point calling her out, making her answer to me. Explain herself. Because it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter. “And I’m going to sit down here and take a few moments to myself”—take a moment to compose myself—“before I go out and rejoin my wife.” I go to the couch and lower, making my point.

“Jesse,” she breathes, moving toward me. Oh, no. I hold up a hand, and she stops.

“Don’t you remember that night?”

“What fucking night?” I ask. I’ve fucked her more than once, and I can’t remember one encounter in any detail. Because I was pissed.

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