And though it’s been mentioned, suggested, and I’ve thought it a hundred times, I’m in shock.

She loves me?

I slide my hand into her hair, leaning over the console, and press my lips into her cheek, praying this isn’t just the drink talking. Praying she remembers this.

“I hope you can love me, baby,” I whisper, closing my eyes and ignoring the smell of so much alcohol on her, polluting her. “Because I’m madly, crazily in love with you.”

I sigh, feeling despondent, and recline the seat to get her comfortable. I’ll never forget this moment. But just in case . . .

I lift my arse from my seat, rootling through my pocket for my phone. And I take a picture of her, the only one I’ll ever take of her plastered, but hopefully not the only one I’ll take after she’s told me she loves me.

The drive back to Lusso is long, with only my tormenting thoughts for company. I feel like I’m on a runaway train, coasting toward a disaster, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. But perhaps I can slow it down. Give myself time to figure some of this shit out.

“Fuck,” I breathe, wedging my elbow into the door and resting my heavy head on it. And as if my car feels it’s appropriate, Angel comes on, low and soft in the background. I look at her sleeping form.

Do whatever it takes to keep her.

Simple.

It’s like trying to handle a slippery dead fish. She’s floppy, a dead weight, could even be dribbling as I wrestle her out of the passenger seat. And the smell. Christ, the smell. I nudge the door of my Aston closed with my hip and stride into Lusso with her draped across my arms, lifeless. The concierge is propped in a chair behind the desk, napping. He must hear my footsteps because the old bugger startles and shoots up in a panic.

“Mr. Ward,” he blurts, straightening his hat, his sleepy eyes on the drunk woman in my arms. He rushes to the elevator and punches in the code.

“Thanks,” I grunt, and he backs away as I try in vain to tug Ava’s dress down.

“Good evening,” he says, returning to his desk.

“Fucking dress is fucking ridiculous,” I grumble, boarding the lift and leaning down, stretching a finger to find the buttons while keeping hold of her. The doors close, and I look at her. She’s dead to the world. “You’re never drinking again, just so you know.” My eyes drag down her dress. “And I’ll be having a thorough check of your wardrobe.” And throwing away any unsuitable dresses. I nod agreeably to myself and leave the lift, struggling to get the door open.