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“Can you just give me some time to get used to it?”
I feel my whole being deflate, disappointed. I can’t enforce this. I want to, but I can’t drag her there, kicking and screaming. And I certainly don’t want to argue with her over this. “I understand,” I say reluctantly, pulling her back into my chest, kissing her hair. “You’re not going to avoid it forever, are you?” How long does she need? “I still want my new bedroom designs.”
“No,” she says, and I smile. “Anyway, I’ll have to go to oversee the work once we finalize the designs.”
“Good.” I can live with that. Besides, it’s probably wise to keep Sarah and Ava apart for the meantime.
“What’s going on at The Manor?” she asks.
I grab some shampoo—mine because she took hers when she left me—and start washing her hair, dragging my hands from her scalp to the very tips at her lower back. “The police turned up last night.”
“Why?”
“It’s just some idiot playing games.” I amnotmentioning how many potential someones there are.Who the fuck was it?“The police rang John this morning to arrange a few interviews. I can’t get out of it.” Her hair washed, I put Ava under the showerhead and rinse away the suds. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she says, her eyes darting across my chest. “Kate was at The Manor last night.”
She knows?So why the fuck did Sam swear me to secrecy? I don’t know, but I’m playing dumb. If Ava thinks I’ve kept that from her, it won’t do me any favors. “I know, it was quite a surprise.”
She looks at me, worried. “Was she okay?”
“Yes, she was fine.” I drop a quick kiss on her nose and tap her butt. “Out you get.”
She pouts, thinking, and I know those thoughts involve Kate and what she’s gotten up to with Sam. Could it have been Mike, I wonder, my thoughts going back to the raid. He certainly hates me enough. But so does Freja. And Coral. And Van Der Haus. And—
“What’s up?” Ava asks, frowning at my thinking face, snapping me back into the bathroom.
“Nothing.” I quickly turn her and guide her into the bedroom, then go to the spare room and riffle through her things, locating her underwear. I take it back to the master and find Ava sitting on the edge of the bed when I get there. I kneel before her, holding the lace knickers and tapping her ankles, and she obliges, standing to let me shimmy them up her legs. I snap the waistband, smiling up at her, before giving each boob a moment of my mouth’s time while she looks down at me on a raised, amused brow. But she doesn’t contest me. Just lets me do my thing.
“Done?” she asks.
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“Never.” She dips and kisses my forehead, and then lets me help her into her bra. I stand back, admiring her.Always in lace.
“Now are you done?” she asks, her head tilted.
“Until later, yes.” I kiss her hard, leaving her breathless, and go to the dressing room to get ready, pulling on some old jeans.
When I exit, tugging my T-shirt over my head, she’s splayed on her back on the bed, and I stop, groaning. Why? Why would she do that? Her eyes drop to me as I pout, backing out of the room, getting a safe distance away from her. Her restrained smile tells me she knows of the internal battle I’m having.Temptress.
I pull the bedroom door closed behind me, putting the wood between us, and take a few moments to compose myself.
Then I smile.
She loves me.
7
I getout of my Aston slowly, looking up at the building, taking a moment to appreciate what I’ve long stopped appreciating. I’ve lived in a dense fog of misery for so long, everything distorted, everything hazy, and for the first time in a long time, I’m seeing things so very clearly. Most of all, Ava O’Shea.
I smile as I slip off my shades and make my way into the predictably quiet lobby. “Morning,” I say to one of the housekeeping staff, getting a feather duster waved at me as I pass. “Hi, Pete,” I call as I stride past the bar, seeing him loading the glass washer. “Sarah,” I say more civilly than she deserves as she exits the spa area, sliding to a stop on her heels. I flash her a smile and get scowled at for my trouble.
“Someone’s happy,” she mutters.
“A confession of love will do that to a man,” I say quietly to myself. From the right woman, of course. Unlike Coral or Freja Van Der Haus.
“What?” Sarah asks, falling into stride beside me, scurrying to keep up.
