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“Umm,” he says, coughing, torn.
Ava swings around and delivers a dick-slicing glare. “I know what you’re doing.”
“What?” I say over a laugh.
“Being all passive-aggressive so he won’t listen to me.”
I snort, insulted. “Me? Passive-aggressive?”
“Yes, you. I’m paying, Ward, and if you be unreasonable about it, there will be consequences.”
Consequences? “Like what?”
“You know, Iamfeeling quite tired.”
I balk. “That’s a low blow.”
“But one of the only things you’ll listen to.” She turns back to the man. “How much?”
“Eighty-nine pounds, dear.” He pops it in a paper bag and passes it across the counter, eyeing me as I wander away, relenting, if only because time is ticking and enough has been wasted on other people today. “Passive-aggressive?” I mutter. “She’s lost her damn mind.”
“Ready?”
“I was ready an hour ago.” I open the door for her, unamused. “The question is, lady,” I say, catching up with her, getting my mouth to her ear and slipping my hand between her thighs as she walks. She squeaks. “Areyouready?”
She doesn’t answer, just stiffens from the top of her beautiful head to her cute little toes.
We leave Clive marveling over his rare bottle, thrilled, and as soon as I get the door to the penthouse unlocked, I hold it open with my foot, letting Ava through. She claims the bags from my hands and carries on her way, leaving me at the door with no bags to hold, and no woman to hold either.
“What are you doing?” I let the door close behind me and toss my keys on the table.
“I’m taking these upstairs to the spare room.” She looks back at my pouting face. “You can’t see my dress.”
“Put them inourroom.”
“No can do,” she sing-songs, turning the other way at the top of the stairs. I frown at the now-empty space, hearing a door to one of the spare bedrooms close. The farthest one. The one she retreats to whenever we have words. I hate that room.
I trudge up after her, keen to get our alone time underway before it’s too late. I’ve been waiting all day for this. I approach the door and listen for a moment, hearing the rustling of bags. She’s in there, near a bed. Not that I need one. I reach up and purposely, very gently knock the door. It’s an effort. I just want to bash the damn thing down, toss her over my shoulder, and take her back to my cave.
“Don’t come in,” she yells, sounding panicked. I recoil, just as it opens a tiny bit and Ava peeks through the gap. My lips stretch into a killer smile, my hands going into my pockets to restrain them. This is what it will be like on our big day, I know it. Ava in one room, me in another. Her following tradition, me following my instinct. See her. Just see her and ravish her, fuck what tradition dictates.
“Are we getting married?” The words fall out by total accident. Or perhaps not. Perhaps my sub-conscience is curious about what reaction that question might raise. Apparently, no reaction at all. It seems to go right over her head. She thinks I’m joking?
Her hand appears and she flaps it. “I want it to be a surprise. I need to paint my nails. Go.”
My bottom lip protrudes. And there I was thinking there couldn’t possibly be anything else that could interrupt me. Now I’m losing her to nail polish? “Fine,” I relent, being reluctantly reasonable. She’s willing to come tonight, we’re moving in the right direction, and I need to keep us moving so we’re far enough down the road to not turn back when we meet a few...bumps. Bumps? Fucking mountains. “I’ll wait for you in the bath.” I back up. “Don’t be long, I’ve already lost an hour searching for fucking whiskey.”
I go to the bathroom, use the toilet and go to the mirror, checking the stubble situation. Shaving is becoming more and more of an effort, time wasted when I could be being more productive. “But she’s busy painting her nails,” I tell my reflection, opening the cupboard and pulling down my shaving kit before I flip on the bath taps, getting an even flow of hot and cold to make sure it’s tolerable once it’s full. I add some bubbles too.
While the bath runs, I strip down to my boxers and squirt some shaving gel in my hand, smoothing it all over my cheeks, chin, and neck, feeling the scratch of my bristle as I look into my eyes, turning a few things over in my mind. Will she say yes? What will I do if she doesn’t? What the hell do I think I could do? Force her? I laugh at myself, reaching for my razor, pouting. She’d be crazy to turn me down, right? Because while I’m uncertain about much, I know without a shadow of doubt that there is not a man who walks this planet, or ever will, who can or will love her as much as I love her. Okay, so my love comes with a few...quirks. But it’s rich, pure, and it’s real.
I take the razor to my cheek and pause, my eyes widening. “The ring,” I whisper to myself. The necklace too. “Fuck.” The razor hits the sink with a clang, and I’m out of the bathroom like a rocket, flying down the stairs, grabbing my keys and pelting out the front door. I hit the call button and, thank the elevator gods, it’s still on the top floor. The doors slide open and I hop in, walking circles around the small space, watching the floor counter tick down. The moment the gap is big enough, I squeeze through and run through the foyer.
“Hi, Clive,” I call as I pass, his startled eyes following me. I make it to my car, not for the first time today blowing out of my fucking arse. I haul the door open and crouch, feeling around under the seat for the bags, my face squished to the side of the leather. I yank them out, stand, and stall shutting the door. “What the...?” I reach forward and run my fingers through the white smears all over the seat, raising them to my nose. Then I realize. I shut the door and come face to face with myself in the window.
Bare chested. Boxers. Face full of shaving foam. “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, just as a car drives in through the gates—another resident—who pulls up in the reserved space a few away from mine. He gets out. Looks me up and down, pulling his briefcase out behind him.
I nod a polite hello and turn on my bare feet, walking with less urgency back into Lusso. What a fucking day.
