I glance at my Rolex. Did time ever tick by so fucking slowly? I get up, walk circles around my office, sit down, stand up, pace some more. Not long, I tell myself. Then I can relax. She can get her work done, I might even sit and watch her, and as soon as she’s finished, I’ll take her home. I drop my head back. “Make time go faster, please,” I beg, fishing around in my pocket when my phone dings. And then I nearly throw up all over it when I read the message.

  Cancel?

  She’s canceling on me? “I don’t think so,” I say, smacking the dial button, pacing some more. “Pick up, Ava. Don’t do this to me.” It goes to voicemail. “Fuck!” I hammer out a text.

  Cancel for what?

  I take a seat on the couch, having to put my fucking head between my legs to remedy my dizzy spell. What kind of pussy am I? I feel sick. Injured. Panicked.

  My phone dings, and I scramble to get it. I literally cannot believe what I read. “Give you time?” I’ve given her loads of fucking time. Time that’s felt like centuries. “This is too intense?” I go on. “Too quickly?” I stand, my eyes rereading it over and over, my heart sinking more each read. “It’s also fucking amazing, Ava,” I whisper, taking my phone and pushing it into my forehead, clenching my eyes shut. I am not going back to square one. No fucking way. I dial her again, and it goes to voicemail again.

  And again.

  And again, and again, and again.

  “Fuck this.” I stride out of my office, the floor shaking under my feet from the impact of my determined pace. People clock me. Move from my path. Wise people. All except John, who blocks the doorway out of The Manor.

  “You’re going to do something stupid,” he says, widening his stance, standing firm.

  “Move,” I growl, and it’s a fucking surprise, but he does. Albeit slowly and with a despairing sigh.

  I get in my car and skid my way down the driveway, dialing Ava on repeat, and each time it goes to voicemail, I curse and smack my steering wheel.

  The traffic is diabolical. It matches my mood. I spend over an hour stopping and starting, not seeming to get anywhere fast. “Come on,” I growl, poking the nose of my car out of the traffic every now and then to try and see what the holdup is. I’d get there faster walking at this rate, and I’m not opposed to doing that. She needs to cancel. Needs? She doesn’t need to do anything. She wants to. Why? After everything, why? I yell my frustration, looking at my dashboard when my phone rings.

  “What?” I bark down the line to Sam, pulling out of the lane again but quickly zipping back in when I see a bus coasting toward me. The driver sounds his horn, flipping me the finger as he sails past.

  “Good to hear your voice,” Sam quips, and my lip curls at the bumper-to-bumper traffic ahead. I’m not in the mood for his happy-go-lucky disposition today. It’s been a shitstorm from the second I opened my eyes—even before, actually—and the one thing that was guaranteed to improve it has canceled on me. “Where are you?”

  “Stuck in traffic,” I grunt. “On my way into the city.” To talk some sense into someone. Or maybe I’ll fuck some sense into her.

  “Yeah, traffic’s shocking today, mate.”

  “Did you just call for a chit-chat?”

  “Fuck me, who’s shat in your coffee this morning?” he asks, and I roll my eyes, giving my horn a few irritated smacks.

  “Sam, what do you want?” I ask.

  “I’m meeting Drew for a lunchtime pint.”

  “That’s nice,” I say, full of sarcasm. “You two lovebirds have fun.”

  “We would, but he’s just called me to cancel. Something about sealed bids and a deadline.”

  “I haven’t got time for a quick pint.” I’m too busy going crazy. And has he forgotten I’m not drinking? Although, admittedly, I could really fucking do with one right now.

  “That’s not why I’m calling. You wouldn’t believe who’s in here.”

  I frown. “Who?”

  “Your pretty little interior designer and a particularly fiery-looking redhead.”

  I sit up straight in my seat. She’s having lunch with Kate? She canceled me to have lunch with her friend? “What bar?” I ask, edging out again, seeing the line of cars up ahead beginning to move.

  “Baroque on Piccadilly. So, who’s the redhead?”

  “Kate. She’s not your type.”

  “She looks very much my type from where I’m standing,” Sam muses. I’d laugh if I was in the mood. Sam’s type drops their knickers at the drop of a hat. Usually at The Manor. I don’t know Kate all that well, but I get the feeling she’d play hard to get. A bit like her annoying friend.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say when the traffic finally breaks, giving me space to put my foot down. I hang up on Sam and overtake the car in front, my Aston screaming. It’s not the only thing.

  * * *

  I make it into the city finally, park illegally, and stalk my way to the bar, hammering out a text as I go.

  There better be a GOOD fucking reason for you standing me up & needing time isn’t one. Someone had better be dying. I’m going out of my fucking mind, lady. NO KISS

  I push my way into the bar and find her immediately. And as if it’s backing me up, my heart starts galloping. It pushes all reason out of my mind. It makes me resent her more for depriving me. Sam’s at the table too, flashing his cheeky smile left and right.

  I’m glad he’s providing the comedy. I’m about to provide the angst.

  Ava stands, collecting her bag and phone, as I heave like a gorilla behind her. I can see her profile. She’s smiling. And doesn’t that just wind me up more? What the fuck is there to smile about?

  She turns, still smiling.

  Sees me.

  Stops.

  “Who’s dead?” I bellow, stunning her. “You don’t get to fuck me off, Ava.”

  She blinks, looking back at her friend and Sam, seeming lost. Like she doesn’t know what to do. As if she thought I’d happily accept her piss-poor excuse for standing me up and not come after her.

  “I have to get back to work,” she eventually says, dropping her eyes and passing me, hurrying out of the bar. What the fuck? Didn’t she note how rattled I am? Didn’t she consider for a moment how to change that?

  “Jesse,” Sam says, pulling my confused form around to face him. He cocks his head in question. “Breathe, man.”

  Breathe? Yes, breathe. But when I try to drag air into my lungs, my chest goes tight. And there’s the problem.

  I leave Sam and Kate in the bar with alarmed looks on their faces, going after Ava. I spot her on the pavement, her stride fast, her hair bouncing across her back. She rounds the corner onto Bruton Street and arrives at her office door too quickly for my liking. I’m about to call out to her when she zips inside, and I laugh out loud, part disbelief, part infuriation. She thinks she’s safe from having to face me? She thinks I won’t go right on in there and bring her back out? This woman needs to remember that when it comes to her, I have no shame or boundaries.

  Apparently.

  I burst through the door, stalk to her desk, and catch her before she can take a seat, throwing her over my shoulder. Her squeal makes my damn fucking cock twitch. Even blood-boiling mad, I’m still hard for her.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing?” she shouts as I pass her colleague’s desk, his eyes wide as he follows my path. I get her outside and find a suitable wall. “Jesse, fucking hell! Put me down now!”

  I cringe. Good lord, won’t she stop cursing like a fucking sailor? I reach back and start to slowly ease her down my front, making sure every inch of her front slides across every inch of mine. With my arm wrapped around her waist, I hold her off the ground, our noses nearly touching, my raging erection pressed in her lower stomach. You feel that, baby? That’s for you, even if you don’t fucking deserve it right now.

  She groans as my eyes dart across her face, drinking in every exquisite piece of her desire. I didn’t need this confirmation. But I wanted it. What game is she playing?

  She swallows and looks across to her office window, wincing. Fuck them.

  “Mouth,” I whisper, pulling her face back to mine. “You stood me up.” I kiss her chastely, and everything inside of me softens. My world stabilizes. My heart announces its presence. And as I stare at her, my life seems to tunnel into an oblivion of her. All her.

  She looks away, as if she can’t stand the intensity of our eyes being locked. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. I’m sorry too. I’m sorry she keeps ping-ponging between acceptance and denial. I’m sorry she can’t hack the whirlwind of our connection. I’m so fucking sorry. And frustrated. And lost. And, fuck me, dependent on what only she appears to be able to give me.

  It’s a shitty situation to be in. For me, and for her. But it is what it is. I’ve accepted it. It’s time, once and for all, for her to stop fucking fighting it. Just feel it. All of it.

  I slam my mouth to hers, swallowing her whole with my kiss, my passion, my need. She doesn’t deny me. She can’t possibly when we’re touching. A crowbar couldn’t pry us apart, so Ava fighting would be fruitless.

  I push my groin into her stomach hard, showing her something else she does to me. The irrational reactions are out of my control. My craving. My obsession. My frustration. “What do you need time for?” I ask, and she sighs on a mild shake of her head.

  “To think.”

  Think? She needs to stop thinking. It’ll drive her nuts like it does me. “Don’t think, Ava,” I say sternly. “This is how it is. Accept it.” I force myself to break away, my dick aching, willing me to bury it inside her. Right fucking time, wrong fucking place. I reach out to steady her when she sways, my smile unstoppable. Go on, baby. Deny it now. Tell me I don’t turn your world upside down.

  She hisses in pain, and I recoil.

  I drop her, stepping back, my eyes like lasers on the collection of bruises on her arm. My jaw goes into overdrive, my teeth gritting, my breathing going to shit once again. It’s something else I can’t control where Ava O’Shea is concerned. This newfound anger.

  There are two instructions running on repeat through my head. Just two.

  Find that bald prick.

  And kill him.

  She quickly covers the source of my rage, her hand settling over the marks. It’s a pointless effort. They’re imprinted on my mind. “I’m fine,” she says quietly, shifting awkwardly before me. “I need to get back to work.”

  I stare at her, this beautiful, oblivious woman, and something uncomfortable shifts inside of me. Guilt. Except this guilt is unfamiliar, yet it hurts just as bad. It turns my stomach. It makes me want to punish myself. Knowing she’s hurt kills me, whether physically or emotionally, and as I stand here, looking at the woman who has knocked me for six, I have the most unbearable realization.

  I can hurt her the most. I’ve only ever hurt the people I’ve loved. I could kill her spirit. Her faith. Her trust.

  That woman out there, she’s falling in love with you, Jesse. Like every other fucking woman you’ve had. Except probably harder. Probably faster. And that is plain fucking cruel when she doesn’t know who you are.

  I try to ignore John’s words. I can’t. Because while I’m sure this woman can fix me, it could break her in the process. And, Jesus, I can’t do that to her.

  I move back, dazed, confused, and feeling even more broken than I have before.

  She’s a cure. I’m a disease.

  Walk away. I should let her have the man and life she deserves. I’m not that man. And I can’t give her that life.

  My anger returns tenfold, and my feet carry me back, away from her, my body working in line with my brain. I can feel Ava’s confused expression resting on me.

  I. Am. Beyond. Help.

  I was a fool to think even for a moment that Ava could save me. Because if saving me means breaking her, I’m out.

  I blink, my eyes stinging, and turn, walking away from her.

  I fight with my urge to look back, and lose.

  She looks dazed. Confused.

  It’s better than fucking destroyed.

  I don’t bellow my despair to the heavens until I make it back to my car.

  17

  I don’t remember my drive back to The Manor. Massive Attack played, and when Angel came on, I turned up the volume to its maximum, trying to drown out my thoughts and the image of her looking at me, lost and stunned.

  I park my Aston haphazardly and walk up the steps of my manor on numb legs, my mind focused on the only thing that can get me out of this hell. I pace through the rooms, ignoring everyone I pass, and John comes out of my office with Sarah as I approach, his face grave when he sees me. I start shrugging my way out of my jacket and pulling my tie loose.

  “Don’t do it,” he says as I pass him and enter my office. “Don’t do it, Jesse.”

  “Why?” Sarah asks. “He looks like he needs to relax.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” John barks, but I’m too focused to appreciate how angry he must be to talk to Sarah like that. He never talks to Sarah like that, no matter how much of a bitch she can be.

  I head to the drinks cabinet and brace my hands on the edge, my breathing labored, my eyes scanning the bottles. “Leave me,” I order, feeling John’s presence still behind me. “Just leave me the fuck alone.”

  The door closes, and I continue to stare at the bottles, every shitty thing that’s happened in my life running circles in my head, cruelly reminding me of my innumerable shortcomings. Of my stupidity. Of what I’ve lost and what I can never have. Ava. She’s at the top of the list, but then there is also purpose, hope, peace . . . freedom.

  Forgiveness.

  None of those things will ever be mine.

  My nostrils flare, and I swipe up a bottle, taking it to my desk and dropping to my chair, placing it in front of me. I can smell it. I can smell the relief, the numbness, the emptiness. I slam my palm into my temple, clenching my eyes closed. I see Jake. I see Lauren. I see Rosie. I see Carmichael. I see the knife, the alcohol, hear the hateful words.

  The horror movie that is my life plays before my eyes, every unbearable detail, every awful moment.

  And at the end, before the curtain falls, Ava’s face.

  The end.

  I grab the bottle, unscrew the cap, and take it to my lips, swigging back the respite within my reach. I gasp, wincing, the burn fierce. More. I take it back to my mouth, glugging the vodka, determined to get lost in the bottle.

  How old are you?

  More vodka.

  I’m never letting you go.

  I don’t want you to.

  More vodka.

  I’m going to get lost in you.

  More vodka.

  Once I’ve had you, you’re mine.

  More. Fucking. Vodka.

  The seconds blur into minutes, and the minutes into hours. Every moment painful. I work my way through the entire bottle, getting angrier with every recollection taunting me.

  Every moment when I was offered wasted hope.

  * * *

  Fuck knows how long later, I glance out of the window, seeing the sun going down. I reach up with a wobbly hand to unfasten the top button of my shirt as I get up and go to the cabinet. There’s a knock at the door. “Go away,” I mumble.

  More vodka.

  I’m ignored, and the door opens. Sarah walks in, her eyes falling to the bottle in my hand. “Want some help unwinding?”

  “No, I want to be alone,” I snap, not that my drunken slur penetrates her thick skin.

  She says no more and closes the door behind her, and I stagger to the couch, flopping down, the soft cushion feeling like iron against my pounding head. It’s not pounding with the effects of alcohol. It’s still fucking pounding with visions, memories, and fucking feelings. How much do I need to drink to make this all go away? Will it ever go away? Will I ever return to the welcome place of nothingness?

  More vodka.

  Restless, I get up and start pacing my office, my legs unstable, my big body swaying. Why the fuck am I still hurting?

  More vodka.

  Knock, knock.

  “I said—” I look at my office door when it opens.

  And stare at Freja Van Der Haus on the threshold.

  She pulls the tie of her overcoat. Shrugs it off. My eyes drop down her bare body.

  “Shut the door,” I order harshly, placing my bottle on the cabinet as she obeys. I scrub my hands down my rough cheeks, wrestling away the fact that she looks nothing like Ava. At least twenty years older. More meat on her bones. Blonde hair. Too much makeup. She couldn’t be any more different. “Come here.”

  She wanders slowly over, and even through my drunken eyes, I see her body lighting up. She stops in front of me.

  Forget.

  Eliminate her.

  Do whatever it takes to free myself of this nightmare. And, more importantly, free Ava of me. And the daze of the alcohol kicks in—yes, this is familiar. A willing woman. No fight. This. Is. How. I. Fuck. It doesn’t matter which pussy. Just a willing fuck. “Turn around,” I say, my voice groggy. She slowly turns, looking over her shoulder coyly. She wants foreplay. A build-up. An extended session to blow her mind.

  I haven’t the inclination to please her, just the desperate need to escape. I grab a condom and clasp her neck with one hand, walking her across my office to the sofa, applying pressure, encouraging her to bend over as I unfasten my belt and yank my trousers open. My limp dick falls into my hand. I stroke it, willing it to life, begging it to harden, the strain and effort almost too much. I slip the condom on with some effort, and with my hand on her back, I guide myself to her wet, begging pussy and push my way inside her with no warning or consideration. She’s ready. Always ready.

  They always are.

  I grunt, taking her hips, ignoring how wrong she feels. How wrong all of this is. She cries out, I bite down on my back teeth, and I start thrusting, my head dropped back, unwilling to look at her, unwilling to reason with myself. Fuck her hard. Do what you do best, Ward. I’m not capable of loving. I’m only capable of fucking. It’s all I know, all I’m good for.