I pull onto her road and glance up at the house as I pass, seeing the lights on the first floor are on. Swinging into a space, I cut the engine and flip open the glove compartment. I look through the CD’s she’s got stashed in there, smiling when I see Blur in her collection. I pull it out, eject the Ibiza dance tracks—definitely more her genre than mine, another reminder of the age gap—replace it with Blur, and skip to the track on my mind, my smile growing. But it falls when I stare across the road, wondering what reaction I’ll get this time. Has she been thinking about me?

I want to see you.

The breathy Oh God was acceptance. She royally fucked up when she said that.

I reach across to the other seat and take the phone and SIM, putting it together, not quite believing I’m stooping to this kind of low. I key in her number, lifting the phone to my ear as I look back up at the window. As it starts to ring, I break free from the confines of her little car and stretch my muscles, glancing at my trousers. They’re stupidly crumpled. They match my fucking brain.

“Ava O’Shea.”

My head snaps up, her voice sliding over my skin like silk, momentarily rendering me incapable of replying or moving.

“Hello?”

“Are you alone?” I spit the words out fast, not thinking about how I sound. Angry. I sound angry. I’m not thinking straight.

I can hear movement and sudden heavy breathing. “No.” She rushes the word after way too long.

For the love of God, does she take pleasure from this? “Why are you lying to me?” I ask, my vocal cords hurting from the strain to hold back from growling my words.

There’s more movement, and my mind conjures up images of her darting to the window to look out, so I gaze up, seeing her shadow behind the blinds. Every modicum of sense remaining is telling me to walk away before this kills me, but that tiny side of my fucked-up mind, the side that’s dead set on making my life fucking miserable, is stamping all over it.

The line goes dead, and I pull the stupid, cheap, disposable crap away from my ear, looking at it in disgust. My ego wants to believe that the piece of shit is broken, but I know damn well she just hung up on me. Again. Breathe, Ward. Breathe.

Slightly concerned by the building anger, I dial her again, my mind invaded by those images of her standing before me in that lace. The words she uttered. The desperation, the want, the acceptance.