14

It was good to spend time with the boys somewhere other than The Manor for once. Really good. We tucked into a takeout dinner, talked like women, and laughed. Their help in distracting me was more appreciated than they’ll ever know. Or perhaps they do know. Of course they know. But alcohol isn’t the only thing I’m trying to avoid. I’m also trying my fucking hardest not to call Ava. I wouldn’t want her to think I can’t let her breathe.

I could tell both Drew and Sam were itching to get their deprived arses to my place of pleasure after a few hours of humoring me in my new home, so I drove them over. I didn’t go inside. I dropped them off in the driveway and got my backside away from there before any more women came crawling out of the woodwork. I may have driven past Ava’s place on my way home. I may have stopped and looked up at the window where the light was on. I may have imagined her in bed. Was she in bed? What was she doing? Surely being cuddled up with me would have been better.

You cuddle now, Ward?

I drove back to Lusso with a moody face and fell into bed. And I stared at the photograph of the boats for an eternity, constantly wrestling with my mind’s demand to call her. Just call her. Or text her. Text her and tell her you’re thinking of her.

I fell asleep with the soft sound of her laugh haunting my dreams.

On Monday, I wake up in a foul mood. Yesterday was pure hell, spent kicking my heels around my new place, constantly fighting with my swaying mind. Call her. Don’t call her. Text her. Don’t text her. Honestly, it could have driven me to drink. If this is her playing hard to get, I fucking hate it. It’s stupid. And pointless. So today things change. She’s had enough breathing space. And since, apparently, I need her to keep myself breathing comfortably, I’ll be seeing her today, whether she likes it or not. I’d rather she likes it, of course.

After my morning run, I shower, change into my finest gray suit, and take myself to the bookstore I googled earlier. I pay, then take myself to the nice florist lady. I write a note, smiling the whole time, and give her specific instructions and an address. I leave feeling rather pleased with myself. See? A gentleman. Romantic. I can do that.

When I arrive at The Manor, I find John in the bar. He looks like he’s about to go on a slaughtering mission, his face cut with irritation. I’m almost afraid to ask. “All right?” I say lamely as I perch on a stool next to him.