“With the interior designer. I told you yesterday afternoon.” She wanders across to my desk and slaps a file down. “But you had already started on the bottle.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, glaring at her. “I have a drink most days. Is that a crime?” Listen to me, being all defensive. It’s the first sign of guilt. But Sarah and I, we handle our guilt in different ways. She whips the fuck out of men, takes out her anger and frustration on them. Punishes them. Me? I seem quite content punishing myself.

“No crime,” she muses, sashaying out of my office.

“Why can’t you do the meeting?” I call.

“I’ve got memberships to deal with. When your meeting’s done, we need to go over them.” She stops at the door, looking back. “I’ll be in the communal room tonight.”

“And?” I’m not going anywhere near Sarah or her whip. Believe it or not, I do have a conscience, even if I lose it from time to time. I never lose it with Sarah, though. I won’t make that mistake again. I flinch, and by the look on Sarah’s face, she’s read my mind.

“Have a good day, Jesse.” She closes the door, and I clench my fists, trying to breathe through my anger, trying to keep my eyes off the bottles of drink across the room. Having them removed would be the answer. Clearing out my office and apartment of all temptation. But then, the bar is fifty paces from my office. And what would I offer mates to drink if we go back to my apartment?

Excuses.

I reach up and yank my tie loose, feeling suffocated. The last thing I need right now is a meeting. My head’s fuzzy. My body strung. My mood low. Shit, I need a drink.

Glancing at my Rolex, like it might offer me a different time to the clock on the wall, I groan. Another hour, I can wait another hour. I stand, remove my jacket, and unfasten the top button of my shirt. Then I sit down and slump back in my chair and stare at the ceiling as I roll my sleeves up. Another hour. Another hour. Another hour.

There’s a knock at my office door and my limp head drops as the big guy strides in. “Jesse. Miss O’Shea, Rococo Union.”

Another hour. “Perfect. Thanks, John.” My voice is hoarse. I’ll get this meeting out the way and then, fuck it, I’m having a drink. Just one. I should’ve insisted Sarah deal with this. I’m in no mood—restless, cranky, and hot.

I watch as John slowly shifts. What’s that look on his face? It’s impassive, as always, unreadable with or without his wraparounds shielding his eyes. But . . . I cock my head.