Page 137 of The Billionaire's Baby

My head spins. I pull the cigarette out from between my lips, stare at it.

"Thought you were trying to quit?"

"Trying." I growl. "The operative word is trying."

Like I'm trying to quit her. And succeeding at neither. No, strike that. The withdrawal pangs for nicotine cannot compare to the withdrawal symptoms I am facing at the thought of moving on from her. Shit, and I clearly have lost all my balls. I stub out the cigarette in the ash tray, then reach across the counter, and grab a fresh bottle from the inside shelf.

I straighten and the blood rushes from my head. The world tilts, I grab at the counter, and steady myself. Shit, guess I am more drunk than I thought?

I place the bottle on the bar, slowly, slowly, then try to unscrew the cap. My fingers slip and the bottle tips over. It hits the ground, then rolls toward Edward, who stops it with his foot.

He picks it up, then holds it behind his back.

"Aww, come on," I huff, "don’t be such a spoilsport."

He walks over to the couch, then points to the one on the other side of the coffee table, "Take a seat."

I scowl, "Not particularly in the mood to confess anything, Father."

He sighs, "Sit down, will ya?" He stares at me with his patient all-knowing eyes.

"Don’t you ever lose your shit?"

He arches an eyebrow. "Typical defensive mechanism," he drawls. "When you don’t like what you see, you point the mirror at the other person."

"Is that an euphemism?"

"A metaphor. It’s my way of saying you need to face the problem at hand, instead of running from it."

"And haven’t you ever run from your issues? Have you always been so perfect that you’ve faced your fears head on?"

"If you only knew what goes on in the recesses of my mind." He purses his lips.

"Ooh, do tell." I reach over, grab another bottle of vodka, then amble over to drop into the seat he’d pointed to earlier.

I tilt the bottle to my lips, take a healthy swig. The liquid goes down smoothly. It hits my stomach and a low heat creeps up my spine. At least, this shit is good. Worth the odd million I’d paid for it.

Edward raises his own bottle and unscrews the cap.

I stare. "You’re joining me, Father?"

He chuckles. "I do drink, you know. I simply try to do so in moderation."

"Booorinnng," I mutter, then drink some more. "So, are you going to tell me why you’ve made me sit here? For that matter," I lean forward, "why the hell did you come here anyway?"

"I’m not here alone, actually." He tilts his head, as if listening intently.

"No shit, I am here with you," I guffaw.

He holds his palm behind his ear.

"The hell you up to, Father?" I scowl.

"Wait for it; wait for it." His lips turn up in a smirk. And Edward never smirks. Which means this must be bad. Like really b-a-d.

I hear the sound of footsteps hitting the deck of the yacht, which rocks under the combined weight of whatever… Or whoever is headed for us.

"Oh, bollocks," I purse my lips, "don’t tell me the rest of the Seven are—"