She ignores me, snatching up her bag and hurrying out of my suite. What the fuck? Nothing? No explanation? No words at all? After all that, she’s really going to leave without talking about this? My face must be expressing the incredulity I’m feeling, my forehead heavy as fuck from my confused frown. “Fuck,” I yell, snatching up my T-shirt, shoving my feet in my shoes, and grabbing the file she’s left, going after her. Not a fucking chance, lady. She doesn’t get to take me to heaven and then send me to hell. “Ava!” I bellow, flying out of the suite, wrestling with my T-shirt as I do.

I see her reach the bottom of the stairs, going into the bar. I’m down the steps in a few reckless leaps, wide-eyed members everywhere stopping and staring as I go.

I land in the bar, out of breath and disheveled, my fear escalating when I find Sarah crowding Ava near the bar. For fuck’s sake, didn’t she have someone to whip?

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.”