The endless weight across my shoulders alleviates immediately when she answers. “I like,” she says. The ringtone. She likes the ringtone I chose. And she hasn’t given me a hard time for invading her phone.

“Me too,” I say. “We’ll make love to it later.”

“You’re not seeing me later.” She sounds sure. She shouldn’t be.

“I miss you,” I say around my pout.

“You miss me?”

“I do.” I sound like a sullen child. “I miss you.” Something terrible. Days are no longer endless alcohol-induced hazes. They’re just endless. I pull up across the road from her office and find her standing by her desk, one heel pulled up to her arse. I smile. “Don’t go out tonight.” My words were supposed to be soft. Pleading. Unfortunately, they sounded more demanding.

“Don’t,” she says slowly, falling heavily into her chair, her move displaying her exasperation. “I’ve made plans.”

Yes, plans that don’t involve me, and that’s a problem. I hate that she can so easily resist me. Even if I know she really can’t. It’s ridiculous. She’s cutting her nose off to spite her face. “You know, you may be at work, but don’t think I won’t come down there and fuck some sense into you.”

There’s a brief silence, and I know she’s wondering if I’d actually do that. “Knock yourself out,” she whispers, and I laugh.

“I was serious, lady.”

“I know you were.”

“Do your legs ache?”

“Ish.”

“Ish,” I whisper, relaxing in my seat, the stress draining. She’s aching for all the wrong reasons. I should make her an offer she can’t refuse. My hands working those sore muscles all night. All weekend.

Don’t crowd her.

But I’ve already concluded that she likes being crowded. Especially by my body.

Does she like being told what to do?

Stupid fucking question. I’ve never met such a difficult woman. “Remember our deal?”

“No reminder fuck required.” She’s back out of her chair, stretching.

“Watch your mouth, Ava. And I’ll decide when and if a reminder fuck is necessary.” And one is definitely necessary now.

“Roger that.”

I exhale, accepting that while I can’t get my hands on her, I’ll never win. “When will I see you?”

“Tomorrow?”

It pains me. Physically pains me. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Noon,” she fires in return.

“Eight.”

“Eleven.”

“Eight,” I snap.

“You’re supposed to meet me halfway!”

I’m slowly accepting that she’s going out tonight, whether I like it or not. “I’ll see you at eight.” I end the call and watch as her foot drops from her arse and she looks down at the screen. I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking I’m impossible.