“I don’t know,” I whisper, wondering how I could ever explain. “You make me crazy,” I add, putting that out there too, though she’d have to be deaf and blind not to have noticed that. I look past her, seeing Luigi dancing through the tables with plates balanced on his arms. Thank God. “Here’s your pasta.”

“Lovely people,” he sings, sliding his dishes before us proudly. “Buon appetito!”

“Thank you, Luigi,” I say, also quietly thanking him for his perfect timing as Ava picks and pokes at the dish, lost in thought. I don’t think I can take any more questions, and I definitely can’t handle more halfhearted confessions. She deserves more than the scraps of information I’m giving. More than the twisted answers. I’ve got to somehow find it in myself to do the right thing by her. Even if it means the wrong thing by me? And who’s to say it’s the right thing by her? Ignorance is bliss. Does she even need to know?

Fucking hell. The weight of it all is too much. This could be a new start for me. A fresh one. No past, no sins. No chance of her leaving me so I have to face life alone again.

I think I could literally talk myself in circles over this.

“Good?” I ask when she finally takes a bite.

She swallows. “When did you buy the penthouse?”

My fork falters on its way to my mouth. She’s not done. “March.”

“You never told me why you requested me personally to work on the extension of The Manor.” She drops her fork and pushes the plate away, and I stare at the barely touched pasta.

“I bought the penthouse and loved what you did with it.” Yet nothing prepared me for the face behind the project. The face gazing at me now. “I can assure you,” I say quietly, “I didn’t expect you to come rocking up, with your perfect figure”—fuck, that figure—“olive skin”—that’s wonderfully soft—“and big brown eyes.” That I get lost in each time I look at you.

“You weren’t exactly the Lord of the Manor I was expecting, either,” she says, her lips stretching. Is she remembering our first encounter? The chemistry? The intensity? I catch a slight roll of her shoulders. She’s remembering. “How did you know where I was on that Monday lunchtime when I bumped into you at the bar?”

“Lucky guess.” I didn’t follow you there at all.

“Of course,” she huffs. She knows. It makes me smile.

“I couldn’t think of anything else after you left The Manor. I had to have you.”

“Do you always take what you want?”