She doesn’t answer, and I resist throwing the phone to the floor, texting her instead. I know she’ll read it. She might not reply, but she’ll read it. I don’t think about what my thumbs are bashing out. They just bash away, a mind of their own.

Answer your phone!

Just as I click send, I yell in frustration at my own abruptness. I’m trying to fucking win this woman, not scare her half to death. I dial her again, but she doesn’t answer. Again. “For fuck’s sake,” I curse, re-dialing. I’ll call her all night if I have to. I’m not leaving until she faces me and explains what the fuck happened. “Fucking answer!” I demand.

She doesn’t. “Fine,” I say to myself, resolute. She doesn’t get to do this. Every second she refuses to acknowledge me is enhancing the truth of it.

She’s scared.

Admittedly, I’m scared too. Fucking terrified. She can soothe me, just like I know I can soothe her. I cross the road toward the house, as the piece-of-shit phone screams the arrival of a text. My stomach turns, my stomach actually turns, and my brow breaks out in a light sweat. I open her message.

No.

No.

Just . . . no.

Bollocks to this shit. I pick up my stride, hammering out another text, my march determined.

Fine, I’m coming in.

It’s mere seconds before my phone is screeching in my hand, and I look down at it, smiling to myself as I answer. “Too late, Ava,” I say quietly, approaching the front door and cutting the call, my heart feeling like it could punch its way out of my chest. Her fault. And with that thought, I start hammering at the door like a fucking madman, but I feel like it, totally consumed with desperation to make her admit our chemistry.

“Open the door, Ava.” I continue banging, not bothered about disturbing the peace or drawing any attention to myself. She will answer. “Ava, I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me, please.”

Bang, bang, bang.

“I’ve got your keys, Ava. I’ll let myself in.” What the hell am I saying? Will I?

I halt with my incessant beating of the door and think for a moment. Will she make me resort to that too? Jesus, please don’t. I bang some more, but stop quickly, my back straightening, my ears listening carefully. And then I hear the thumping of footsteps. She’s coming down, and she’s mad.

Good. I need someone in this with me.

I rest my hands on the doorframe and wait. Breathe in. Swallow hard.

The door swings open, and I’m instantly gulping back air, taking in every fragment of her. Her hair is piled high, her smooth, olive skin glowing. I don’t care that it’s in anger. Even the lounge pants have me trembling.