All I Am: Drew's Story (A This Man Novella) by Jodi Ellen Malpas

Author:Jodi Ellen Malpas
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2017-06-18T07:00:00+00:00

Fifteen minutes ahead of my appointment, I approach Raya’s front door cautiously, even though I know she’s not here. I head straight downstairs to the area where I’d seen her photos and come to an abrupt stop when the cabinet comes into view. The picture of her with the other man is gone. Every other picture remains, but that one is gone. I stare at the empty space, mind whirling with possible explanations. She’s hidden it, a precaution in case I happened to come back and snoop, or she’s got rid of it, because she wants what it represents banished from her life. I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying not to think too hard about it. Yet the harder I try, the more I fail. “Damn, Drew.” A knock at the front door offers relief, if only for a while.

I make my way upstairs, opening the door to my potential buyer. “Drew Davies.” I extend my hand to the man before me. “Mr. Watts?”

His face is tipped up, taking in the exterior. “Yes.” He drops his head, a warm smile on his face. “Pleasure to meet you, Drew.” His hand in mine is solid.

“Please, come in.”

You know a buyer is serious when they check every nook and cranny, feel every wall, try out every appliance and tap. Mr. Watts is serious, asking all the questions I would expect of someone who’s truly interested in paying this kind of money. He roams the house for over an hour.

“It’s in spectacular condition, as you can see.” We pass Raya’s bedroom, and my feet waver in their pace toward the stairs. The bed. The sheets. A dress draped over the back of the chair.

“I’m just going to have another circuit, if that’s okay,” Mr. Watts says, casting his shrewd eyes around the high cornicing of the landing as he pulls a tape measure from his pocket. “Take some measurements.”

“Sure. Take your time.” I head downstairs, leaving him to it. Back in the kitchen, I sit on a stool and pull my phone out to check my e-mails, anything to stop me looking around, anything to stop my mind straying to Raya. What a joke. I’m sitting in her fucking house, and, like the twat I am, I put myself here.

“Hello?” Her voice drifts down the stairs, and I shoot up from my stool, looking around, like—what? I can hide? Run away? Then steps, dainty and measured, hit the wooden steps. The ball of my fist meets my forehead, my eyes clenched shut. “Drew?”

“Hi.” I breathe, opening my eyes while bracing myself for the vision of her. She’s loaded down with bags, her hair a wet mess, her white T-shirt sopping wet. “Raining again?” I ask like a chump, my eyes cemented to the pink bra revealed through the wet material. Nipples like bullets. Skin pink and cold. A few licks and I would have her body temperature back to where it should be. Boiling.

She dumps her bag on the worktop, and I vaguely register her torso arching inward, her hand peeling the material from her skin.

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