Yeah, I’m not telling him that. I’m ashamed. “It doesn’t matter.” I shove my hands in my pockets, feeling the stress rising. “I just need you to escort her to the extension so she can measure whatever it is she needs to measure. And don’t let anyone talk to her.”

“Why?”

I give up the ghost. For fuck’s sake. “She thinks this is a hotel.”

An eruption of laughter bursts out of him. It’s so sharp, so powerful, he’s forced to bend and brace his hands on his knees. Fucker. I’m glad he’s finding this funny. Although, I admit begrudgingly, it’s oddly satisfying to hear and see John laugh. No one else sees this rare side of him, only me. The man’s my rock. And I need him now. Begging isn’t beneath me, not on this occasion, yet whenever have I had to beg for anything in my life?

Except for forgiveness.

Except for mercy.

Except for peace.

“You done?’ I ask, irritated, going back to my chair. I settle and look across to the drinks cabinet. It’s still loaded with alcohol. Why hasn’t Sarah done what I asked her to do? I want it gone.

John’s quiet now, and I look up to find he’s also looking at the drinks cabinet. “And once I’ve assisted in helping Miss O’Shea measure whatever it is she needs to measure, I do what with her?” he asks. “Escort her back to her car?”

“Not exactly,” I murmur quietly, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip. He tilts his head, making the light hit his bald head and bounce off. “You then escort her to my private suite.”

“What?”

“Tell her to have a look around. Get a feel for the place.”

“And where will you be?”

“Waiting for her.”

“Hell, no.” The door is yanked open and he’s gone, slamming it behind him with brute force. The whole fucking office shakes, and I drop my head back, looking at the ceiling in despair.

See? Stupid idea, Ward. Fucking stupid. But it’s all I can think of to remind her. To show her. I’m about to go after John, not prepared to give up—he is quite literally my only hope—but he bursts back in again, slamming the door again. The office shakes. Again.

“Of all the stupid motherfucking shit you do, Jesse, this takes the cake.” He throws his arms out. “Trapping the girl? What kind of fucked-up shit is that?”

If only he knew what I’d been up to so far. I remain mute, completely defenseless, as he rants on.

“If you’re that obsessed about fucking your interior designer, take her to fucking dinner.”