Just My Luck by Adele Parks (best romance books of all time txt) 📗

“Of course,” says Jake. His tone isn’t as confident as his words. “We’re winners, Lexi. You have to trust me.”

CHAPTER 16

Hearing the door open, she turned and glared at him. She wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to meet him at all. The text finally arrived. It simply said, Usual time. Usual place. It was insulting in its brevity. It was tardy and isolated. She wanted to ignore it. But it was too tempting. She needed to hear what he had to say, how he would justify himself. So yes, here she was, usual time, usual place. They had met at this hotel almost every Tuesday afternoon for over two years, exceptions being Christmas, spouses’ birthdays and last week. They had picked this particular hotel because it was convenient for him as it was not too far from one of his big clients; his boss thought he put a lot of hours into securing their ongoing profitability and loyalty. “Long, boring meetings,” he always claimed. She didn’t work at all. Tuesday afternoons were handy for her because she had her hair blow-dried on Monday, her nails done Tuesday mornings. On Wednesday she liked to swim at the club, Thursday was yoga classes. She often shopped on Fridays or met a girlfriend for lunch. He fitted in perfectly to her life on a Tuesday afternoon. Just another treat.

At least that’s what she thought at the beginning. A sexy, charming, handsome treat. She’d always admired him. For years. She realized it wasn’t quite the right thing fancying your friend’s husband, but despite appearances she’d never been particularly hung up on doing the right thing. She thought it was overrated. Anyway, she might have left it alone if he hadn’t made it clear that he wanted her, too. He had instigated the affair. Hadn’t he? Or was it just one of those things? Inevitable? She didn’t believe in fate or anything dreamy like that. She was not a romantic and fate was the excuse for those too idle to cut their own paths. She thought that there were identifiable patterns in life that led to predictable outcomes. She thought his wife was a tad sanctimonious. He was competitive with most men, anyone who earned more than him, which her husband certainly did. He had a chip on his shoulder about that. Throw in a basic attraction. Ta-da! On some levels it went back a lot further than two years, a lot further back than the sex. There had always been a little flirtatious spark, just waiting to be lit. Often, he would agree with her opinion even if it meant disagreeing with his wife. He’d listen attentively to what she had to say, whereas her own husband sometimes cut her off midsentence or, worse, actually fell asleep. It was so nullifying. When the three families went on holiday together, and she was wearing a bikini, his eyes would roam her body. Explore. Challenge. If she ever asked for help putting sun oil on her back, he’d jump to lend a hand. On New Year’s Eve, what should have been a friendly peck on the cheek had always been a firmer kiss on the lips. Just brief enough to pass as pally, just long enough to suggest something more. He started to squeeze her tighter when saying hello or goodbye.

Something shifted from friendly to fuck me.

It finally happened at the end of one of their infamous Saturday night suppers. She’d hosted, which meant she’d been up and down from her seat all evening, seeing to other people’s needs. She’d hardly had time to take a bite. The drink had gone straight to her head. Evidently, it hit a different part of his anatomy. Hard. People were talking about leaving so she went to get their jackets. He was in the downstairs loo, just next to the coat cupboard. He emerged as she was rooting around. Had he been waiting for her? He didn’t mess about, didn’t ask with his eyes or his voice, he just put his hands on either side of her face and started kissing her. Not tentatively. Not apologetically. With real intent. She wasn’t a child or a prick tease. If she kissed a man, it was because she wanted him. Completely. There was no going back. They slipped into the downstairs loo and he took her from behind whilst their spouses were finishing their coffees.

A sexy, charming, handsome treat.

He was the one who first started talking about love, asking for more. Talking risks. Talking chances. At first he limited his declarations to specific parts of her body. He told her he loved her breasts, her arse, her eyes. Then he said he loved her laugh. He loved her cruelty. Finally, he said he loved her. That he was in love with her. No room for ambiguity. She had believed him. She had always been the sort of woman that men wanted to declare love to. And because she believed him, she allowed herself to think that maybe she loved him, too. Or at least if she didn’t love him, he didn’t annoy her quite as much as her husband did. But then last week, he didn’t show up. Last week of all the weeks, after her husband had found out about the affair and told her to pack her bags. He didn’t show up when she needed him most because he’d won the fucking lottery.

Now she loathed him. He’d deserted her. She wanted to hurt him. Very much so.

But she loved him. Could she get him back? She’d never hurt him.

She didn’t know if she was coming or going. She might still be able to keep him onside so she had made an effort. She was wearing a figure-hugging dress. She’d had a wax and was wearing lacy, claret-colored underwear, just in case. Because there was a chance, wasn’t there? That he’d offer an explanation of some sort, that he’d still want her. Or at least take