I start nibbling my lip, thinking. Avoid the question. Simple. I glance up at her. Her face, bless her, is bright red. “Twenty–one,” I say, and she snorts, making my brows rise, part amused, but more insulted.

“Sorry.” She swings her gaze back to the portfolio in my hand, and I start turning the pages again. And I’m smiling when the interior of my new apartment comes into view. “This, I like a lot.”

“I’m not sure my work on Lusso would fit in here.”

I find her eyes. What about you, Ava? Would you fit in here? “You’re right; I’m just saying . . . I really like it.”

“Thank you.”

She clumsily grabs her water. She’s modest. Reserved. It’s refreshing after being surrounded by brash women my entire adult life. But she definitely needs to loosen up. Just a little, though. Not too much. Her disposition is endearing. Her awkwardness. Her terrible attempts to remain cool. That’s refreshing too.

This is so strange, this feeling. My fascination. Her fascination. I smile at the photographs, feeling her eyes drilling into me. I move my knee a fraction and brush her leg, and she jerks, moving away quickly.

“Do you have a toilet?” She’s up like a shot, faffing with her dress, and I slowly rise until I’m towering over her.

“Through the summer room and on your left.”

“Thank you.”

I remain exactly where I am, not giving her the space she needs, forcing her to edge her way past. She’s holding her breath. I’m definitely holding mine. My eyes follow her hasty steps all the way to the door until the wood separates us.

“Well, fucking hell,” I breathe, falling to my arse on the couch and staring forward. Ava O’Shea. I don’t know what I anticipated, but she most definitely wasn’t it. I blow out my cheeks, scrubbing my hands down my rough face. Just ask her out. Simple shit. Except, I don’t ask women out. I get plastered and fuck them in every filthy way imaginable, and something tells me she wouldn’t be all too amenable to an offer to join me in my private suite. She’s nothing like the women I’m used to, and I’m guessing Miss Ava O’Shea isn’t familiar with this lifestyle. But is she curious? Could she turn after she’s seen what I offer here? I pout.

Frown.

Recoil.

No. This place, it wouldn’t suit her. She’s too . . . lovely. She’s more lace, not leather. More passionate lovemaking than animalistic fucking. I sense she wouldn’t settle for anything less than a fairy tale, and I know, better than anyone, that all I have to offer is a horror story. Darkness. Ugliness. Pain. Sin. Guilt.

She’s out of your league, Ward.