Once parked, I notice the state of my gray suit. It looks like I’ve been wrestling in it. My hidden smile is huge, visions of Ava squirming on the bed beneath me running rampant in my mind. I reach down and adjust my dick, the damn thing swelling. I don’t want to be here.

I stomp moodily up the steps, and when I walk in, I’m more than relieved I relented to Ava’s refusal to come, not only because Freja is here somewhere. It seems everyone is here.

The foyer is a mass of people zigzagging past each other, coming to and from the bar, heading up the stairs, coming back down. It’s the busiest hotel I’ve ever seen. On a colossal frown, I head into the bar. It’s just as busy. Mario is frantic, serving, shaking, pouring. It’s Tuesday night, a notoriously quiet evening. What gives?

I wander around the back of the bar and help myself to a water. “Mr. Jesse,” Mario sings, ever happy, even when he’s run off his Italian feet.

“What’s going on, Mario?” I ask, motioning to the crowd.

“I not know,” he says, getting back to the masses of people waiting to be served.

John strides in, scanning the chaos, finding me tucked away behind the bar. He jerks his head and leaves. “On my way,” I mutter, stealing a glimpse of the top shelf, starting to feel clammy under the pressure of my impending confrontation with Freja. I shake my thoughts clear and follow him to my office. “Where is she?” I ask his wide back, but he doesn’t answer, just opens the door for me when he arrives, standing back like a gentleman and sweeping an arm out in an over-the-top, sarcastic gesture. “Thanks,” I grumble, seeing her sat on the other side of my desk. I’m wondering whether it’s wise to be in a room alone with her. Not because I’m worried about what I might do, but what Freja will do. I’ve been on the receiving end of a desperate woman one too many times recently.

But I conclude very quickly my office is my only option, especially with The Manor so busy. I don’t need a scene.

I go to my desk and plant myself in the chair, putting a huge chunk of wood between us. “Freja.” My eyes fall to the back of the couch where last time I saw her, she was bent over it. I cringe those thoughts away. “What can I do for you?” Why the fuck would I ask such a stupid question?

Her head cocks in question as if she’s surprised. It doesn’t sit well. “I thought—”

“Oh, no,” I say before I can engage my brain and consider a more diplomatic approach. “Well, I thought we’d reached an understanding.”

“Yes. Then last week happened.”