Page 31 of Taming Achilles

All the things I had never had with the woman in the apartment behind me.

I took Simona’s hand to my mouth and kissed her palm. She smelled like lavender. I used to like it. But now, all I noted was that it didn’t smell like lilies.

“Good luck, George.” She placed a kiss on my cheek. It was a farewell kiss.

“God, you are perfect in every way, Simona,” I said, sadly shaking my head.

“I know I am. Which is why I don’t take second place.” She winked at me as she walked down the hall, back to the elevator.

“It’s not fair, you know.” I called after her.

“Life rarely is.”

The wisest woman I had ever known sauntered out of my life.

There was a fluttering in my chest, a tightening in my gut as the good walked out of my life, and the tempest I called Pippa walked back in. I had been in her periphery for five years. Close, but never in the orbit of her destruction. Now, I was in it, caught in her gale.

I shook my head, fortifying myself for what was to come, and opened the door to walk back into the apartment.

I shut the door behind me and turned, glimpsing Hugo in the armchair.

“Did you …” I started, but was cut off when a lamp came hurtling through the air. I barely had time to dodge it before it smashed into a thousand pieces, crashing against the doorframe and onto the floor.

“You bastard!” Hurricane Pippa was in full fucking force.

Chapter 14

Pippa

“Simona Amspoker?” I screamed at him, wishing that I had thrown the lamp a few seconds earlier, before he had a chance to dodge. “You have a girlfriend?”

It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation.

“You found her last name remarkably fast,” Geordie’s gaze narrowed on Hugo.

I paused, realising I had completely outed his friend and worried that I had erred. But Hugo simply shrugged.

“Oh, noooo,” Hugo sarcastically sang the words. “It just slipped out. Desolée.” Sorry.

His tone caught me so off guard, I almost laughed, putting a dent in my indignation. But I concentrated on my rage. On Geordie. The lying sack of shit. The cheating bastard!

“You know, you come off all quiet, and reserved. Look at me! I’m from Paris, and I hate all food that isn’t French.” Geordie mocked an accent that sounded like Inspector Jacques Clouseau in the Pink Panther. “But really, you’re a gossipy little bawbag!”

“Don’t get mad at him!” I interjected. “You’re the lying little … bawbag!”

I reached for the closest flingable object, a remote control, and threw it at his head. He didn’t dodge this time. It hit him square on the temple.

“Christ, woman! Did you train with the New York Dodgers in the last five years?” He said, placing his hand on the bump starting to form.

“It’s the New York Yankees, you cretin!” I had absolutely no reason to be screaming these words like they were a condemnation. I didn’t give a shit about sports. “It’s the LA Dodgers, you wanker!”

I reached for another remote and flung it.

“It’s the most boring sport on the planet,” Geordie said, his hands up in a defensive position.

Hugo grunted an agreement from where he sat, watching us with a strange, unamused fascination.

“No, it isn’t!” I yelled. “Golf is!”

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