Page 17 of Perfect Satisfaction

I give her a wan one. That’s when the pilot approaches us. “Ms. Moore? It’s time.”

Angie opens her arms and I surge into them. For long heartbeats we do nothing but hold each other. I hear her whisper, “You are more than the broken pieces of your heart.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Then remember you are still loved by me, by your brothers. We’ll help you put the rest back together.” After pressing herself close for one last embrace, Angie pulls back. Following a swipe of her fingers beneath her eyes, she jerks her chin. “Up you go. Text me when you land.”

I walk up the stairs without looking back. I can’t. If I do, I might race past Angie and back to Brooklyn to Arek to beg for him to lie and tell me it was all a nightmare.

Eight hours later, I take the lift to the highest floor. After a quick glance around to make certain no paparazzi are lingering in his halls—Damn you, JB, for living in a building with so many famous people in it—I pound on the door of his flat.

Within seconds, it’s yanked open, and I’m jerked inside and pulled into his arms.

My ear lands right next to his heart where I hear a sound as familiar to me as the blood that thrums through my own veins. “There’s nothing sweeter than this after the hell I’ve been through,” I tell his jumper.

JB pulls back before tossing the purse and carry-on I am holding onto an antique settee. Then he wraps an arm around me and pulls me alongside of him. He grabs my hand and raises it to his jaw. It’s solid granite. My voice drops to a whisper, “JB, I’ll be okay.”

“When? In a year, five years?” he snaps.

Lips trembling, I answer, “If that’s what it takes.”

His head drops to mine until it barely grazes my forehead, a gesture of love and empathy. He gives me a critical once-over. “You’re exhausted. Off to bed.”

“You have only one.”

“Who cares. Get in. You need sleep before I interrogate you about what the fuck your husband was thinking.” His words, though spoken softly, cause tears to well up in my eyes.

“No, no, Sula. No crying.” Panic laces his voice.

“I. Can’t. Stop.” Crying is my only outlet for the agony I feel from the betrayal dealt by my husband.

He snags a bottle off the liquor cart and grabs my hand. “Come with me. We’ve got to fix this.”

Docilely, I cede all semblance of will. I just need to forget.

Fortunately, Joshua’s giving me an easy outlet—booze and sleep.

CHAPTEREIGHT

Several preeminent members of British society were in attendance at the premiere of Simon Houde and Evangeline Brogan’s performance of Oklahoma!

Count yourself lucky if you were one of them.

Among the elite, none were surprised to find West Moore with his latest flavor of the month. What did cause a bit of a stir was the man sitting to his right. John Clarke—founder of XMedia—is certainly not an unfamiliar face to the West End.

However, the woman he escorted was, seeing as itwasn’this wife.

—Moore You Want

One Month Later—July

I’m huddled backstage at Wembleyas Brendan Blake saunters to the edge of the stage amping up the crowd to one of his oldest and most popular songs, “Broken Boots.” I have chills running up and down my arms as the sold-out crowd of 90,000 fans begin stomping their feet and clapping their hands in time to the lyrics.

A voice breaks into my headset. I listen to the familiar voice proclaim, “The only way this gets better is if you would actually smile.”

I try. I really do.

He stares down at me before leaning over to say directly into my face, “You’re breaking my heart, kid.”