Page 50 of Jane Deyre

Ward

This day has been a total clusterfuck. I was supposed to write the foreword to Edwina’s memoir and do another round of edits and send them to my editor, but with the power outage I couldn’t do a goddamn thing. My computer wasn’t charged up. I couldn’t even go through Edwina’s archival photos because there was no light in the small windowless room they’re kept in. You’d think this house would have a power generator, but it doesn’t. Except for the kitchen which was renovated after a pipe burst, nothing has been touched since my mother died. While it looks glorious from the outside and is probably worth twenty mill on a bad day, the house is falling apart on the inside. There are leaks in the roof, rotted floorboards, cracked windowpanes, and drafty fireplaces. Fire hazards everywhere.

All afternoon, I sat in front of my blank computer screen and drank bourbon. Truthfully, I didn’t give a shit about my manuscript. I kept thinking about Jane Deyre. Soaking wet for me. So vulnerable. So needing of my attention.

Just before I headed downstairs to grab a bite, I chugged a brandy and jacked myself off. Had I not, I would have lifted her up against the wall when I found her behind the drapes and wallbanged her. Fucked her hard until she cried out for me to make her come and then cried out her climax. Loud and feral. I know beneath that tame demeanor there’s a wild, savage animal.

And that dress didn’t help. Seeing it on Jane messed with my brain. It made me think of my mother. That tragic day. I wanted to tear it off her for all the wrong reasons.

Trying to block her from my thoughts, I print out my manuscript. It’s futile, and out of frustration, I crumple each page in my hand as it spews out. Then toss it into the wastepaper basket next to my desk. I miss one shot and throw the printer onto the floor. The damn thing is still limping along. Page after page pours out. I give it a kick and then hurl the wastebasket at it. I swear this printer is the Superman of printers. Invincible.

It’s almost like it’s mocking me. Ignoring it, drink in hand, I pace my office. My stomach rumbles.

I glance down at my Rolex... a gift to myself after I received a hefty advance for my first book. Replacing the one Edwina bequeathed me—that belonged to her late husband, Bertrand. His story will come out in Edwina’s memoir. And so will my mother’s.

It’s almost seven. Hunger consumes me.

I slam my laptop shut and storm out of my suite.

The pages keep printing.

CHAPTER 25

Jane

“...Little pig, little pig, let me come in,” I say in my deepest voice. Adele is tucked in bed and loving every minute of the story ofThe Three Little Pigs.After her bath, I promised to read her a story and this is the book she picked out. Cuddling next to her so she can see the illustrated pages, I’ve enjoyed reading it to her, and it’s kept my mind off her father. Plus, I’ve gotten to use my acting skills, giving voice to the three pigs and the big bad wolf. Adele’s eyes are glued to the pages as I read them aloud.

“No, no, no, by the hair of my chinny chin chin,” I continue in a squeaky high voice. I’ve tried to make the three little pigs sound distinct.

“Then, I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down,” comes a deep baritone voice.

Adele looks up. Her eyes light up. “Papa!”

Standing at the entrance to her room is Mr. Rochester. He’s leaning against the doorframe, his feet crossed, his arms folded. His eyes lock with mine, and my mouth goes dry. I stop reading.

With a wry grin, he juts his chin. “Go on, Miss Deyre. I was enjoying your performance. Youarequite the good actress.”

I feel myself blushing. Every cell tingling. How long has he been watching me? I manage a humble “thanks.”

“Papa, come join us!” shouts Adele. “You can be the Big Bad Wolf.”

Still grinning, Ward pads to the bed and sits down next to me. So close I can feel his warm breath skim my flesh. That delicious woodsy scent of his fills the air. His presence unnerves me. The hair on the back of my neck bristles.

“Miss Deyre, your turn,” he says, eyeing the book.

“R-right.”

I pick up where I left off and after a stuttering start, I get into a rhythm with Ward playing the part of the Big Bad Wolf. He makes Adele giggle with his over-the-top impersonation and to both my surprise and delight, he really gets into it... with huffs and puffs that turn his face red, and raps against Adele’s headboard that simulate the knocking on a door. He even has me laughing. The funniest part is when we get to the end and the wolf falls into the big pot of boiling water. He begins to ad lib:

“AAAGH! Somebody save me! Please don’t eat me! Please!” He flails his arms. Fakes panic. The look on his face is of pure feigned terror.

I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. At the same time, I feel incredibly drawn to the other side of this man. The side that is childlike, uninhibited, and downright funny. Mr. Rochester is more of an enigma than ever.

He continues to act out the panicked wolf. “Please don’t eat me!” he repeats.

“Papa, I won’t eat you!” shouts Adele. “I promise!”

I close the book. Mr. Rochester wipes a tear from my face with his forefinger.

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