Read Online Push Me (To The Edge series, #1) by Jill Macintosh - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jill Macintosh
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of the blue, or wait until a certain time?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked at me for a few seconds, picked up her drink, and deadpanned, “Well, at least you have it all planned out.” She raised her glass. I picked mine up and we toasted to my completely confident resolve and my thorough lack of planning.
We ate in silence for a few moments, then I threw down my napkin, and the words poured out, surprising even me. “You know what would be nice? To find a man who is funny, self-deprecating, easy-going, and dresses like an everyday guy , not in a five thousand dollar suit every day. Where are the men who think talking is part of romance, and that it’s not all about smoldering whispers and intense glaring and customized airplanes and penthouses with gold-plated doors? Okay, there are plenty of guys without those last couple of things. And what about guys who don’t need to know where you are every moment of the day? You know what I want? I’ll tell you what I want. I want to know what it’s like to be around a man who…” My voice lowered and the unfinished thought hung there between us.
“Who what?” she prodded.
I didn’t want to say it out loud, but it was the truth, and if I could speak the truth to anyone, it was Rachel.
I took a deep breath, let it out, and just said it. “A man who isn’t Ian.”
. . . . .
There was simply no way I could wait any longer. I was going to do this when he got home. I wasn’t going to talk to him about my concerns, thoughts, feelings, or anything like that. I just needed to end it.
While waiting for Ian to get home, I ran through it over and over in my mind as I packed the things I would need to bring to Rachel’s. She had offered to let me stay there as long as I needed.
I planned on starting by asking him to hear me out and please let me finish , something he rarely did. I would tell him everything that bothered me—the emotional distance, mainly the lack of sharing intimate details of his life before we met; the secretive lifestyle; the lack of a social life, all of that.
I fretted over how to approach the issue of our sex life. I no longer needed an explanation of why it was such a struggle for him to allow me to express my own sexual desires. I would simply tell him that this relationship was something I could no longer be a part of.
The sexual aspect of our relationship was important, but it was nowhere near as critical as the emotional component.
Or maybe I didn’t need to tell him any of those things. No, I had to give him the courtesy of an explanation. He hadn’t shared a thing with me, and I was determined not to be the same way with him.
All the planning changed , though, when I went into his office. I rarely ventured in there, and there was an unspoken rule that it was his private place. Not anymore.
I don’t know what I was looking for. Nothing in particular, I guess. Maybe some hint at what was troubling him so much that he slept in there, sitting in the chair with his head on the desk. The silly , curious side of me looked for a drool mark. Nothing.
I sat in his chair, running my hands over the cool, smooth, expensive glass surface of the desk that probably cost more than a lot of people make in six months.
Without thinking, I reached for the large drawer on the right side of the desk. It was locked, which only made me more curious about what he was keeping in there.
I looked around for a key, knowing all too well that Ian wouldn’t just leave one lying around. But I was wrong. Sort of. It wasn’t exactly lying around, but it wasn’t very hard to find, either. He kept it under a small bust of Winston Churchill on a bookshelf.
I opened the drawer, expecting to find money, or maybe personal or business papers of some kind.
What I found was books. Six of them. Novels. The same ones I had been reading over the last couple of years—all popular erotic romances.
The fact that Ian had these books wasn’t the shocker,
“I don’t know.”
She looked at me for a few seconds, picked up her drink, and deadpanned, “Well, at least you have it all planned out.” She raised her glass. I picked mine up and we toasted to my completely confident resolve and my thorough lack of planning.
We ate in silence for a few moments, then I threw down my napkin, and the words poured out, surprising even me. “You know what would be nice? To find a man who is funny, self-deprecating, easy-going, and dresses like an everyday guy , not in a five thousand dollar suit every day. Where are the men who think talking is part of romance, and that it’s not all about smoldering whispers and intense glaring and customized airplanes and penthouses with gold-plated doors? Okay, there are plenty of guys without those last couple of things. And what about guys who don’t need to know where you are every moment of the day? You know what I want? I’ll tell you what I want. I want to know what it’s like to be around a man who…” My voice lowered and the unfinished thought hung there between us.
“Who what?” she prodded.
I didn’t want to say it out loud, but it was the truth, and if I could speak the truth to anyone, it was Rachel.
I took a deep breath, let it out, and just said it. “A man who isn’t Ian.”
. . . . .
There was simply no way I could wait any longer. I was going to do this when he got home. I wasn’t going to talk to him about my concerns, thoughts, feelings, or anything like that. I just needed to end it.
While waiting for Ian to get home, I ran through it over and over in my mind as I packed the things I would need to bring to Rachel’s. She had offered to let me stay there as long as I needed.
I planned on starting by asking him to hear me out and please let me finish , something he rarely did. I would tell him everything that bothered me—the emotional distance, mainly the lack of sharing intimate details of his life before we met; the secretive lifestyle; the lack of a social life, all of that.
I fretted over how to approach the issue of our sex life. I no longer needed an explanation of why it was such a struggle for him to allow me to express my own sexual desires. I would simply tell him that this relationship was something I could no longer be a part of.
The sexual aspect of our relationship was important, but it was nowhere near as critical as the emotional component.
Or maybe I didn’t need to tell him any of those things. No, I had to give him the courtesy of an explanation. He hadn’t shared a thing with me, and I was determined not to be the same way with him.
All the planning changed , though, when I went into his office. I rarely ventured in there, and there was an unspoken rule that it was his private place. Not anymore.
I don’t know what I was looking for. Nothing in particular, I guess. Maybe some hint at what was troubling him so much that he slept in there, sitting in the chair with his head on the desk. The silly , curious side of me looked for a drool mark. Nothing.
I sat in his chair, running my hands over the cool, smooth, expensive glass surface of the desk that probably cost more than a lot of people make in six months.
Without thinking, I reached for the large drawer on the right side of the desk. It was locked, which only made me more curious about what he was keeping in there.
I looked around for a key, knowing all too well that Ian wouldn’t just leave one lying around. But I was wrong. Sort of. It wasn’t exactly lying around, but it wasn’t very hard to find, either. He kept it under a small bust of Winston Churchill on a bookshelf.
I opened the drawer, expecting to find money, or maybe personal or business papers of some kind.
What I found was books. Six of them. Novels. The same ones I had been reading over the last couple of years—all popular erotic romances.
The fact that Ian had these books wasn’t the shocker,
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