More alive than ever. But I quickly remember that I’m not talking to her. “What do you want?”

“Where are you?”

I roll my eyes. She knows exactly where I am, and who I’m with. “Why are you asking questions to which you know the answers?”

“With her,” she sighs, as if it’s a massive problem. “I’m surprised she’s given you the time of day after—”

“Don’t,” I warn. “And had you not wanted to help me unwind, I wouldn’t have to worry about being given the time of day.”

She’s silent for a few moments, and then she inhales, realization falling. “She still doesn’t know about The Manor, does she?”

I glare at the beautiful view.

“And what about your Tuesday evening indiscretions?”

“Sarah . . .” I’m growling, hate rising, mostly hate for me. “I’ll talk to you when I get there.” I need to tell her the score, and she needs to stop fucking interfering. “Ava’s coming with me to work on the extension.”

“Risky.”

“It’s Sunday. It’s quiet. See you soon.” I hang up and rub at my forehead, ensuring all signs of stress and guilt are gone before I make it back to the kitchen. Except, when I arrive, I find Ava frantically rummaging through her purse, and that stress and guilt returns tenfold. Fuck. She’s looking for her pills. “You ready?” I ask.

“Two seconds.” She shakes her head, clearly casting her mind back, trying to remember the moment she didn’t put her pills in her purse. I bite my lip as she approaches and takes my hand. It’s easy to be distracted from my wrongs by that little black dress. She’s put the shirt over it—good girl—but what use is that if it’s flapping open?

“It’s a good job Cathy isn’t here. You would give her a heart attack in that dress.”

“Cathy?” she asks, confused, as I set about fastening the buttons from top to bottom.

“My housekeeper.” I nod my head approvingly. “Better.” I take her hand and lead her out, looking at her as we board the lift. She looks thoroughly fucked. It suits her.

The doors close, and my head is quickly invaded with a barrage of wicked ideas, all involving Ava, me, and this lift. Against the wall. On her knees. I shift on the spot, the rough material of my jeans rubbing against my bulging cock. I should have put some boxers on. I have a one-track mind lately and that one track always leads to Ava.

“Morning, Mr. Ward,” the concierge says as we pass, smiling brightly at Ava. “You look better this morning, Ava.”