I feel her interested stare pass between Ava and me. I’m going to be grilled as soon as she has me alone. I’ll make sure it isn’t anytime soon, if only because I can’t promise I won’t rip her head off for fucking it all up. I feel like I’m back at square one, and by the look on Ava’s face, her beautifully flushed face, I am. Her eyes glance at me briefly before looking away, her attention turning to Mario who’s approaching.

“Miss O’Shea, here, you must try.” He thrusts a shot glass containing one of his potent concoctions toward Ava, and I find myself scowling at him. She’s driving, for fuck’s sake.

“Do you have my phone, Mario?” Ava asks.

“You try.” He thrusts it forward, all smiley, and she grabs it and knocks it back, her flinch an indication of the strength. I bristle.

“Wow,” she says over a cough.

“It is good?” Mario asks, hopeful, freeing Ava’s hand of the glass and replacing it with her phone.

“Yes. It’s very good.”

Yeah, well, don’t be getting used to it. I make a mental note to have a quiet word with Mario about testing his concoctions on Ava.

Sarah casts her eagle-eyed glare my way—she can fuck off, this is all her fault—as Ava fusses with her dress, breathes in, and lifts her chin, facing me.

“You left this upstairs,” I say, holding up her file, my eyes rooted to hers, my mind a riot of pleading words. Come on, Ava. Don’t walk away, not now. I need to finish what we started. And then do it all over again. And again. And again, and again, and again.

“Thank you.”

I feel her pull against the file, but I refuse to let go, my teeth going overtime on my lip, thinking, thinking, thinking. Just take her into your office. Talk it through. But before I can suggest that, she’s gone.

“Goodbye,” she says, leaving me standing like a twat, open-mouthed, Mario looking interested as he pours a drink, Sarah still studying me. If she breathes a word . . .

“Want to explain?” she asks, accepting the gin being handed over the bar. In my head, I tell her to fuck off a million times. “No.” I look at Mario. “When she was in the bar earlier, what did she have?”

“A wine.”

I’m off after Ava, and not only because she’s had a drink and she shouldn’t be driving, but because I deserve an explanation. She can give me that explanation while I drive her home.

I jog to the front doors and down the steps, hearing the engine of her car. Is she fucking stupid? “Ava!” I roar, incensed.

She screeches off, demonstrating she’s not in control, and the alcohol is only half the reason. “Fuck,” I bellow, flinging my arms into the air. Is it possible to desire a woman and want to fucking strangle her too? Because I do. I really fucking do.