“She’s sending you off the deep end, that’s what she’s doing.” He turns his shades onto me as I plunge my finger into the jar again. “You were there last night.”

I don’t look at him. “Briefly.”

“And she welcomed you with open arms, right?”

I breathe out, already exhausted by the day. He knows the answer to that. “Why are you so averse to this? Are you and Sarah working in cahoots?”

He frowns at the road. “What’s Sarah got to do with this?”

“She has an uncanny habit of appearing, calling, or texting whenever I’m a heartbeat away from . . .” I wonder how to put it without sounding like a total creep.

“What?”

I shake my head and screw the lid of my vice back on. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m not averse.”

“Then what are you?”

“Worried.”

“Why?”

He hums, not so quick to reply this time. I’m not drinking. I’m not shagging. He should be happy for me. “Give me one good reason why she’s a good idea,” he says.

“Because she makes me feel,” I answer without delay, and John looks across to me. I don’t give him a chance to question me. “Because the moment she walked into my office, my skin buzzed. My brain spun. My mind was elsewhere, and by elsewhere, I mean not at The Manor or at the bottom of a bottle of vodka. If there’s not something in that, I don’t stand a chance of ever being able to repent my sins or live a normal life.”

“You want to live a normal life?” He laughs. “You own The Manor, Jesse. You can’t lure a woman into falling for you without telling her who you really are.”

“Maybe The Manor isn’t who I really am,” I say quietly, looking out of the window. “And lure? You make me sound like a fucking predator.”

John huffs a sardonic burst of laughter, and I scowl at the streets of London as they whizz past. “Have you tried talking to her? Conversation?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

I think hard, revisiting every encounter with Ava O’Shea. I find plenty of stalking and not much talking. In fact, with the exception of our first meeting when we chatted briefly about interiors and extreme sports, which was beyond pleasurable, the rest of our encounters have been lacking in the conversation department. “No,” I admit.

“Women like to talk.”

“Not always true.” I smile, and he sighs.

“You’re not dealing with any of the ladies of The Manor now. You’re thinking about a normal life with a normal woman? Then start acting normal, motherfucker.”