I laugh lightly. “What is it with you women trying to play hard to get?” I ask, leading Ava out of the bar. I get her onto the street, and she loses her footing, staggering a few paces. “For fuck’s sake,” I grumble, gathering her up and carrying her. I’ve never seen anyone so drunk in my life. Except, perhaps, me.

I look at her nestled into my chest, her eyes closed, her face peaceful. “You’re not going to throw up on me, are you?”

She snorts. “No.”

I laugh at her indignation. “Are you sure?”

“I’m fine.”

Totally fine. I roll my eyes as we approach my Aston, making a vow to myself to never let her get in this state again. It’s reckless. Dangerous. It’s me. And it certainly isn’t Ava. “Okay, a few seconds’ warning would be nice, though.” I unlock my car and negotiate her body in my arms to get the door open. “I’m putting you in my car now.”

“I’m not going to throw up.”

I sigh and place her on the seat, watching carefully for any signs that she’s going to spill her guts. The harsh light inside my car shines bright, and my eyes fall to the top of her arm. The bruises. They’ve faded, but they’re still there, marring her beautiful olive skin. I swallow and pull the belt across her body, fastening it as she drags her eyes open, squinting.

“You’re adorable, even when you’re legless.” I drop a chaste kiss on her lips. “You’re coming home with me.”

“You’re bossy.”

No, Ava, I’m a man on the edge, and since you put me there, you’ve got to stop me from falling. Which means compliance. “Get used to it.” I round the car and jump in. She begins circling her stomach with her palm when I start the engine, the deep rumble not helping. I laugh lightly, thinking this is not what I had hoped tonight would entail. But she’s with me. That’s the most important thing.

“Jesse?” she slurs, and I look up at her heavy eyes.

I smile a little, not that she’d know. She probably can’t even see me now, and that’s another reason why she won’t be drinking anymore. I need her to see me as clearly as I see her. “Yes, Ava?”

She gives in and closes her eyes. “How old are you?”

I breathe out. Swallow. “Twenty–five.”

“It doesn’t matter how old you are,” she says, and I cock my head, somewhat surprised. Then why does she keep asking?

“It doesn’t?”

“No, it doesn’t.” She settles farther into her seat. “Nothing matters—I still love you.”

I nearly choke on my tongue. “What?” I reach for her hand, taking it, threading our fingers together. “Ava?”

She’s sparko. Unconscious.