“Henry, if you may get us to Miss Phillips’ home.”
“No,” she says and removes her hands from mine to reach for the door, “Please don’t—I can get home alone, I don’t want to trouble you?—”
My hand wanders onto her thigh to stop her from leaving. She has beautiful thighs, something to grab and hold on to. As I have been on the thin side of the body spectrum my entire life, no matter what I eat, I have always enjoyed women with something to hold onto. I like women of all shapes and sizes, but my preference lies with those who have a soft belly, thick thighs and a wiggly ass.
“It is not an inconvenience,” I tell her off, “If so, I would have called you a cab.”
“But—“ Her eyes wander to my hand.
“No but,” I say. “Lean back and take the offer.”
She does as told, unwillingly, from the way she crouches into the seat, and I remove my hand.
“Who taught you you’re an inconvenience? Mother or Father?”
“No-nobody,” she stammers.
“So your mother didn’t make you believe you have to be small and not bother others?”
She gets even smaller, if possible, confirming my theory.
“You’re allowed to take up space, dear,” I tell her, and when she doesn’t react, I decide on a different approach.
I reach for the minibar and get out a glass.
“How about a drink?” I ask. “A little pick-me-up, I have champagne, an excellent whiskey and a gin I brought from?—“
“I don’t drink alcohol,” she interrupts me. “Never have.”
“Not even tried it?” I ask because I have never met a person, especially at her age, who doesn’t drink alcohol.
“No,” she says carefully as if she awaits reprimand, “I think it’s toxic. I also like to be aware of my senses.” Her gaze wanders outside the window with her last words.
I open my mouth to say something, when she says, “Please don’t hold back with your judgment. I know I am the most boring person on the planet, but I like it.”
“I don’t believe you to be boring,” I say. “On the contrary.” Her eyes flash at me. I am quite intrigued by women who cannot give up control; they’re quite interesting to me.
“As if,” she says. “I saw how you looked at me, heard your words. My knitted bag and I. I mean, look at you, the car, how you dress, everything—I’m a boring nightmare to you, Bella said?—”
Her voice breaks.
More tears come; she wipes them angrily away and stares outside, but more run down her cheeks.
I take the white pocket square from my suit and give it to her; it is the only suitable I have.
She takes it grudgingly.
Meanwhile, I pull out my phone and call Hailie.
“It’s me,” I say when she answers. “I excuse the late-night call, but it is an emergency. I need to find a woman who has been taken to the A&E. I need to know where.” I watch Mia as I call, and she stares at me as if I am a ghost.
“The name?” I ask Mia.
“Bella—Isabella Thorne,” she says, and I repeat the name. I wait. It takes a little longer than I expected.
“St Thomas,” says Hailie, and hangs up.
“Your friend is at St Thomas,” I say casually. “Would you like us to bring you there?”
