I lied. I spent over an hour roaming the penthouse, taking in every little detail that I never noticed before. Like I said, open eyes. I drop Cathy home and take her bags into the kitchen, letting her kiss my cheek before I leave. Then I drive to my rental, stopping off at the supermarket on my way.

When I get back, I stand in the middle of the lounge, gazing at the cold, clinical space. It’s unhomely. Because it’s never been a home. Just a crash pad. A complete waste of money, to be honest, but my good intentions were always there when I rented it. Still are. I planned to stay here most nights but . . . well, it just never seems to happen.

I pull my T-shirt off and dump my bag on the worktop in the kitchen before pulling out a fresh jar of my vice and unscrewing the lid, tossing it on the side and dumping myself on the couch. I flick on the TV and surf the channels until I find something suitably mind-numbing to watch. Then I sigh and slump back as I have my first dip of the day.

I’ve worked my way through half the jar before I know it, and when I glance at my watch, I see it’s only six o’clock. What the fuck am I going to do all night?

Alcohol.

I cast aside my peanut butter and stand, wandering over to the cabinet, assessing each and every bottle. My hands find the side of the wood, bracing there, my body bent over, my eyes laser beams. Alcohol. Alcohol kills time and guilt. But, right now, it’ll also kill this revitalized feeling I’ve got going on.

Knock. Knock.

I straighten quickly.

“Jesse?”

My shoulders drop, my eyes turning slowly onto the door.

Fuck. Me.

I stalk across the room, feeling irritation flaring inside—it’s unfamiliar, but not unwanted. How the fuck does she know where I am? I do not want the temptation of a woman and alcohol, so there will be no invite inside. I yank the door open. “Now’s not a good time, Coral.”

She pouts. “I’ll make it a good time.”

I can’t even bring myself to smile at her suggestiveness. “How did you know I was here?”

“You’ve not been at The Manor.” She goes to pass me, but I move, blocking her. She looks up at me in question, smiling, but it’s unsure. “You’re not going to let me in?”

I shake my head.

She cocks hers, thinking. “Let’s have a drink,” she says, pushing her way past me, and because I’m not an arsehole, I don’t physically stop her. She scans the space, familiarizing herself with it, and heads straight for the vodka.

“How did you know where I live?” I ask, closing the door.

“You told me.”