“He’s at work this morning. Said he’d be here later.” Sam appears in the doorway, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. “You okay, mate?” he asks, his concerned eyes running up and down my form. “You look . . .”

If he says I look stre—

“Stressed,” he finishes, cocking his head. “Come on, tell Uncle Sam.”

I laugh under my breath, welcoming Sam’s attempts to lighten my mood. “You’re thirty. Stop talking to me like you’re double that.” I edge past him into the bedroom.

“What’s going on with the pretty little interior designer?”

I stop at the bed, searching for what to tell him. “Nothing.” I take out a stack of black T-shirts, hearing him chuckle to himself. “So you came here last night to network, did you? Offer free memberships to The Manor?”

I frown and face him. “How did you know I was here?”

“John,” he says, and I scowl. “I’m worried about you, man. You’ve not been around The Manor much this past week. Everyone’s talking.”

“Let them talk.” I go back to the wardrobe. “Nothing is going on with the interior designer.”

“Sure,” I hear him say on a sigh. He hands me a stack of gray T-shirts, and I avoid his eyes as I accept them, setting them in a drawer below the black ones. I’m not sure why I’m being so cagey. Or maybe I do. Sarah’s reaction stung. “So what’s the plan?” he asks.

“Unpack, eat, and chill the fuck out.”

“High five,” he sings, raising a hand. I leave him hanging but nudge his shoulder playfully as I pass, spiking a chuckle.

“Jesse,” Cathy calls. “Jesse, where the flaming heck are you?”

“Master suite,” I yell, zipping up the first empty case and setting it aside as Sam retrieves another.

“Ah, there you are. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack,” she says, taking out her duster and having a quick polish of the door handle. “A man called. I answered the little phone thing by the door. There’s someone here to see you.”

I look up sharply. “Who?”

“A lady. I told him not to let her up because I don’t know who it is. She’s waiting in the foyer.” She tucks her duster back in her apron, and I silently thank her for being so cautious.

“Name?” I ask, feeling Sam’s interested look on my profile.

“She wouldn’t say.”

“Fuck me, they’ve sniffed you out already.” Sam laughs as he starts unzipping the second case. “Or could it be the interior designer?”

“Shut up, Sam,” I mumble, giving Cathy an appreciative rub of her shoulder as I pass, heading downstairs.

“Interior designer?” Cathy asks, with way too much interest in her tone. “Who’s the interior designer?”