“Every time.” I should never have agreed to that threesome. It was a disaster waiting to happen, but . . . alcohol. Fucking alcohol.

“Where are we with the works on the extension?” she asks.

I look up quickly and immediately kick myself for it. “I’m waiting for a quotation. I’ll chase it up today.”

She stands, sliding a file off my desk and tucking it under her arm, her shrewd stare studying me far too closely for my liking. “Or I could.”

My eyes drop like stones to my laptop. Fuck. I always take any opportunity to pass off a job to Sarah. And she knows it. “It’s fine,” I say quietly. I have nothing else. “We had a good rapport.” Stupid thing to say. “Work-wise, I mean,” I add, hearing Sarah’s interested hum. For fuck’s sake. I drag my tired eyes up to her interested face. “I can deal with the new rooms.” Jesus, if I passed this over to Sarah, which I absolutely will not, I wouldn’t see Miss O’Shea for dust.

“Deal with the rooms,” she asks, “or deal with the pretty little thing designing them?”

“Sarah, what point are you trying to make?” Don’t lose your rag, Jesse. Not with Sarah. After being around her for the last twenty years, I know she ultimately has my back. Even if she is a total bitch when she wants to be. Which is often. Suffice to say, she’s not exactly loved around here. Not by the women, anyway. The men, however, can’t get enough of her and her talents.

“No point.” She pivots and struts to the door. “Just keeping you grounded.”

Grounded? Yeah, because I’m perfectly grounded when I’m legless. “Never felt more grounded in my life,” I say to myself as she closes the door, my eyes naturally drifting across my office to where the alcohol lives. I swallow and look at the couch.

How old are you?

I look like I’m in my thirties but feel like I’m one hundred years old. Yet with her, for that brief time, I felt reborn. I spin my phone in my hand, my bottom lip getting a punishing chew. Call her. Check in. I pull up my contacts and scroll down. There she is. My thumb hovers over the dial icon, but before I pluck up the courage to hit it, my phone starts ringing. I don’t recognize the number.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Ward, Patrick Peterson here, Rococo Union.”

Oh? What’s that funny feeling in my gut? “What can I do for you, Mr. Peterson?”

“I’m looking over the file for your upcoming projects.”

He is? Why isn’t Miss O’Shea looking over my file, and why the heck hasn’t she called me? “And?” I ask, undeniably wary, maybe even standoffish.

“Ava has some great initial ideas.”