I sigh, deflating. Many can go fuck themselves. Besides, it’s a moot point, because Miss O’Shea has done everything she could to resist me. Too bad for her, I’m irresistible. And persistent. If she was interested in my money, she would have jumped into bed with me at the first opportunity. She’s not like that. She’s different from what I know, and that’s just making her more wonderful. “Do me a favor, Sarah,” I say, inspecting the finished beams. “Stay out of my relationship with Ava.”

“So it’s a relationship?” she asks, shocked. “You? In a relationship?”

My shoulders drop. I can’t be affronted. It is quite amusing. “I’m done here.” I leave, finished for the day. “I’ve got to collect Cathy from my rental.”

“What about the membership renewals I put on your desk?”

“Get John to deal with it.” I can’t think straight, my mind bouncing between deep-rooted fulfilment and contentment, to dread and self-doubt.

I need a distraction, and I’m not getting it here.

13

Chris the prick meets us at Lusso to give me the codes I need for the gates and elevator. He definitely has a spring in his step. Apparently, the concierge isn’t in until tomorrow so security will be covering and I should request a code change ASAP.

After seeing him off, I take Cathy up to the penthouse, smiling at her constant sounds of awe. “I’ve bought the essentials,” she says, wandering into the kitchen and opening the fridge. She starts pulling out jars of peanut butter and setting them on the shelf. “But you’ll have to do a supermarket run for other supplies.” She shuts the door and smooths a palm over the countertop, then tuts, rubbing her fingers together. “This won’t do,” she mutters, magicking a bottle of kitchen cleaner from her bag and attacking every surface in sight. I’m glad. There were dozens of people here last night, and I’ll be glad to have all their fingerprints cleaned off my . . . home. Not a rental, not a crash pad. A home.

I leave Cathy to it, placing her bags on the side and heading for the lounge. Boxes are stacked everywhere, and I blow out air, wondering where the fuck I start.

“When do you go back to Ireland, Cathy?” I call, grabbing a random box and pulling off the tape.

“In the morning, boy,” she says, and I sigh. The boxes just keep appearing—in corners, under tables, behind the couch. “We’ll get as much done today as we can. Then you’ll have to survive without me until I’m back.”