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“Sarah’s got one of your keys.”
My shoulders drop. “How?”
“Because when I gave one to Sam, she took one too and I wasn’t about to wrestle her for it.”
She’s a fucking pain in my arse. “So how many people have a key to my home?”
“Including Cathy?” John asks. “Seven.”
For fuck’s sake. “I’ll see you later.”
“And how old are you today when she asks me?”
“Thirty-two.” I go to my car, jumping in and pulling away before I’m caught in a potential crossfire. Because there might be one when Ava finds John waiting for her again. Or maybe not. She was fine yesterday. Accepting. But her car wasn’t here yesterday.
I call the florist to order flowers, and my thumb hovers over Freja Van Der Haus’s number, unable to decide whether I’ll be jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire or defusing the situation. Fuck, I don’t know, but after a mile of London traffic, I decide I’ve got no option but to call and ask if it was, indeed, her who came to Lusso. And maybe ask if she’s opened her mouth to her husband about me and Ava. But she doesn’t answer. No surprises there. Fuck me, I feel exposed, blind, uncertain.
As I navigate my way through the early morning traffic, I once again begin the tedious task of planning my day. I’ve made it to the edge of the city by the time I’ve concluded I’m pretty fucking screwed. Even if I was run off my feet, had endless tasks to fill my time, I’d still struggle. I need to get Ava back to The Manor and consume her working day with the extension. I’ll pay handsomely. Eradicate any intervention from her money-mad boss. Everyone wins.
I nod agreeably to myself and glance at my dashboard when my phone rings. “Clive?” I say when I answer, tensing in my seat.
“Mr. Ward. I did as you asked.”
“What did I ask?”
“To inform Ava of the new door, since she’s lady of the house.”
“Oh. Good.” I frown at the road. “Is that all?”
“She asked me to tell you that she doesn’t live here, sir.”
My foot naturally gets heavier on the accelerator, my hackles rising. “She did, did she?” And there is my proof, if ever I needed it, that Ava is the most challenging thing this planet has ever seen. Her message was sent for one reason and one reason alone. To wind me up. Get a reaction. Make me crazy. “Thanks, Clive.” I hang up, my grip on the wheel tightening, and I try in vain to cool my temper before ringing Ava to discuss this. But she beats me to it, her name flashing across my dashboard. I’d love to believe that my love’s incoming call is because she misses me already. I am, however, not delusional. I hit the answer button on my steering wheel, my mouth opening to fire some facts at her, like, actually, shedoeslive there.
But she beats me to it.
“Stop messing about with my phone,” she yells, the sound level of her angry demand echoing around my car.
I stare at the road, flummoxed. “No,” I bellow. “Reminds me of you. What do you mean, you don’t fucking live there?”
“I’m not your fucking maid.”
“Watch your fucking mouth.”
“Fuck off.”
My entire body goes into spasm, twitching behind the wheel of my car. “Mouth,” I yell, swerving to overtake a bus. God, I could wring her beautiful, defiant, challenging neck.
“What’s John doing here?” she asks, short and snappy. All this because of a fucking door? Too far. This is going way too far.
“Have you calmed down yet?” I ask, coming to a stop at a red light. I’m surprised I see it, since my entire vision is red right now.
“Answer me!” she screeches.
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
“You! Are you listening? Why is John here?”
Calm. Breathe.Be the adult. “He’s going to take you to work.”
