He grunts and sets about pulling off some more rope to try another beam. “Are you in?” I ask, finding my feet, chewing my lip. He never actually confirmed he’d help me earlier, although I know deep down his parting words were an agreement without actually agreeing.

He doesn’t look at me, continuing to measure the rope through his hands. “I will, but only because I prefer this obsessive, uptight motherfucker to the old, laid-back drunk motherfucker.”

“Uptight?”

“Yes, uptight.” He looks at me. “You’re uptight. Moody.”

“I’m stressed.” But all this frustration will be gone just as soon as Miss O’Shea stops fighting me.

“Whatever. It’s better than plastered.” He goes back to his task. “But if your plan to seduce her fails and she really doesn’t feel whatever the fuck you think she’s feeling, you leave it. You hear me? No more crazy shit. You leave the girl alone.”

“Promise,” I agree without hesitation. But my plan won’t fail. “Sarah gone?”

“Left a while ago.”

“Good. Ava will be here at seven.” I back out of the room. “Ish,” I add, frowning to myself as I take in the rope and beams. “Probably wise to take her to the room at the far end.” Where there are no ropes hanging from the beams to test they’re strong enough to take the weight of a human body. “And could you let me know when she’s here? Text me?”

He hears me, but he doesn’t answer.

“Thanks, John.”

“Fuck off.”

I smile and leave him to it, making my way to my private suite. I go to the cabinet and pull out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then take a shower. I kill time, running through my plan as I wash. Which is, basically, get her steaming drunk on lust. Make it impossible for her to walk away. Be gentle. Patient.

I step out and dry off, pulling on my jeans. I hear the door open. John appears in the bathroom doorway, and I frown. “What are you doing here?” Shit, hasn’t she turned up? I mentally locate my phone on the unit and push past John to retrieve it, my insides churning.

“She’s here.”

I swing around before I make it to my phone, my insides now on fire.

“I left her in the bar.”

“Why?” I ask, horrified. The place is heaving.

“I told Mario. Don’t worry.”

“You could have text me.”

“I can’t convince you to rethink if I text you.”

Oh. So that’s why he’s here. To talk me out of it. I scoff and pass him, going back into the bathroom to grab my toothbrush. “My mind is made up.” It’s the only way. “If you’d ever felt like this, you might understand.”

“The butterflies? The tingles? Yeah, been there.”