I roll my eyes and try Sarah again, thinking I need to get myself some new friends. It’s all I can do not to yell my elation when she answers. “Where are you?”

“I’m . . . why?”

“I need some help.”

“Dealing with that drunk tart? No. I’ve been dealing with it all fucking night. Your problem.” She hangs up.

“For fuck’s sake,” I yell, disturbing Coral from her slumber. She looks up at me and drunkenly grins.

“I’ve been looking for you.” Her hand lands on my stomach and strokes. “Take me to your room.”

“I’d rather eat razor blades,” I say to myself, resigning myself to the fact that I’m alone in this. I should have stayed at my rental and tore myself apart with my uncontrollable thoughts. Dipping, I lift Coral from the chair and get her on my shoulder, heading out of the bar. I don’t have time for this.

I take the stairs, bypassing my suite and entering the next room. It’s a mess, the cleaners yet to venture in here. I dump her on the bed, batting away her grabby hands when she tries to pull me down with her.

“I left him for you, you know.” She looks me straight in the eye. “Because what we shared, that was special.”

I turn and walk away. Special? No, it was fucking. I felt nothing. She’s seeing what she wants to see.

I pull the door closed behind me, stopping in my tracks, thinking, Ava’s words hitting me for the millionth time since last night.

Whatever you think you felt, what you think I felt, you’re mistaken.

I recoil. Shit, am I to Ava what Coral is to me?

No.

Laughing, I head to my office, pulling up Google on my way. Think? I don’t think anything. I know. Maybe John is right, though. Women love to talk. But not all women. The women of The Manor don’t want to talk. They don’t want to be treated reverently. Be romanced and sent flowers.

I find a florist and order some flowers, having them sent to Lusso with a note.

Sarah is at my desk when I get to my office, and I ignore the look of interest she gives me. I’m not speaking to her. Landing on the couch, I start sifting through a pile of paperwork on the coffee table, just for something to do.

“Forgive me,” she says, and I look up, confused. She turns my laptop around, showing me the screen, where an email with my order confirmation from the florist is open. A confirmation that states what I want to be written on the card. Forgive me. “Why?” she asks. “What did you do?”