I eradicate that sass and defiance you’ve found with a reminder of how good we are together, that’s what. “Do you want to find out?” I ask, because I’m more than willing to show her. “Two . . .”

She’s shifting from foot to foot, her eyes darting. Come to me. Don’t come to me. Either way, she will be in my arms in . . .

“One . . .”

She shoots across the kitchen fast, and I welcome her with an open embrace, of course, deeply satisfied. She’s learning well. My body relaxes immediately, and I rest my head on hers as she strokes my back. See? Perfect. Why ever would she play silly games and starve us of this? And speaking of starving us, has she remembered what she told me last night? I pout to myself. It doesn’t hurt to ask.

I shift and lift her onto the worktop, moving between her thighs, smiling at my shirt drowning her as I skate my palms over the smooth skin. “I like your shirt,” I muse, pulling my hand back from the brink of meeting the apex of her thighs.

“Is it expensive?” she asks casually.

I raise my eyebrows, smiling darkly at her cheek. She knows it’s expensive. “Very.” But fuck the shirt. Let’s get down to business. “What do you remember about last night?”

She definitely withdraws, and it’s far too long of a delay before I get an answer. “You’re a good dancer.”

Talk about stating the obvious. But it’s not what I’m looking for. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for JT.” Moving on. “What else do you remember?” Come on, Ava. Give it to me. Don’t make me squeeze it out of you.

“Why?” she asks, looking at me in question. It makes me pause for thought. She really doesn’t remember?

I deflate. Well, that sucks balls. Okay, let’s try and clear something else up. “Do you remember seeing your ex?”

“Yes,” she virtually snarls, though I can’t be sure if it’s at me or him.

“Do you remember my request?”

“Yes.”

That’s good. It’s one less thing for me to worry about. But . . . back to the original matter. “And at what point do you draw a blank?”

Her body tightens in my hold. “I don’t remember getting home, if that’s what you’re getting at.” She’s defensive. Very defensive. “I do realize I was stupidly drunk and highly irresponsible.”

I couldn’t agree more. So I’ll take that as an indirect guarantee she won’t be drinking again. Glad we’ve cleared that up. It’s dangerous. And on top of that, she told me something groundbreaking and can’t fucking recall. “You don’t remember anything after the bar?” I ask, digging deeper, willing her to try hard and remember.

“No,” she sighs, glancing away. She’s not avoiding me. She’s embarrassed.