I smile as I click send. Cheeky, Ward. Very cheeky. But the alternative was swearing my motherfucking head off and demanding she stop it. Just stop it. She’s sending me crazy. One should question what the fuck I’m doing. I could go back to The Manor, snap my fingers, and have a dozen women fall at my feet. But all that will achieve is numbness. I might feel like I’m going crazy right now, but at least I’m feeling something.

I quickly pull up my emails and send one to Patrick Peterson, insisting on having Ava working my project. And working something else, hopefully. I’m covering all my bases. Then I read my message to her again, biding my time, waiting for a reply. I bet she’s laughing. Is she laughing? Or is she horrified? My face bunches. I hope not. A few suggestive, cheeky texts are nothing in the grand scheme of things.

After ten minutes of waiting and trying her mobile again, I resign myself to the fact that I’ve blown it. Again. Fucked it up. “Bollocks,” I breathe, pulling up Google and finding the landline for the company.

“Good afternoon, Rococo Union.”

“Don’t hang up,” I blurt, every inch of me tense, waiting for the line to go dead. It doesn’t. She doesn’t hang up. I exhale, reaching for my forehead and giving it a soothing rub. I’ve never had a headache without the assistance of alcohol before. It’s something else new, yet this I don’t like. Because there appears to be only one fucking cure, and she’s refusing to share the antidote. “Ava, I’m really very sorry.”

“You are?” The surprise in her tone is warranted.

“Yes, really, I am.” A little. More for me than you, though, lady. “I’ve made you feel uncomfortable.” And worked my nuts off for nothing, it seems. “I’ve overstepped the mark by a long shot.” Like, miles. “I’ve distressed you.” And myself, because damn if your resistance doesn’t only make me want you more. Make me wonder more. Make me ache more. “Please accept my apology.” Please, please, please. I reluctantly admit it’s time to wipe the slate clean. Start again. Go back to Plan A. Woo her. Is there an online course for that kind of shit?

“Okay,” she eventually murmurs. “So you don’t want to make me scream or gag me?”

My eyebrows jump up. More than anything I’ve wanted in a long fucking time. “Ava, you sound disappointed.”

“Not at all.”

I smile. She’s a terrible liar. “Can we start again? I’ll keep it professional, of course.”

“Mr. Ward, I’m really not the right person for this job. Can I transfer you to Patrick?”