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“Good,” said Eva. “Now that’s settled, what are you still doing here?”

“I swear there’s an echo here,” he said.

“I’ve already given him an earful about becoming as bad as us,” said Moray.

Eva frowned. “I admire your industriousness, but you could do some of this work from home. You were only just married.”

Gavin rubbed his forehead, gearing up for what he was certain would be a lecture from both parties. “It’s more convenient if I work here.”

Moray crossed his arms. “So this wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’ve been avoiding your wife?”

Gavin’s hand dropped to the desk. “I’m not avoiding my wife.”

“Then why have you spent twelve hours a day here for the past three days?” asked Eva.

“Don’t forget, he showed up on his wedding night too,” Moray pointed out.

“Are you avoiding Catriona? Because you’re here far longer than I am,” Gavin shot back, more censure in his voice than was perhaps necessary.

Eva cocked her head to one side. “Sometime she accuses me of it, but no. This is my job. It might irk her, but in the end she understands its requirements.”

“And what would those be?” Moray asked.

Eva shot him a look. “Tolerating working in close quarters with you comes to mind.”

“I should think that would be one of the pleasures of the job,” said Moray.

Eva rolled her eyes.

“I hate to admit it, but my esteemed editor is right,” Moray continued. “Eva’s job requires that she’s here at all hours, putting the newspaper to bed six days a week. A reporter has no such obligation.”

Gavin sighed heavily. “Things are a little strained as Ina and I acclimatize to living together.”

“You’ve been married less than a week,” said Moray. “How can they be strained?”

“There’s a certain level of . . . awkwardness there,” Gavin said.

“Are you suggesting the virginal Miss Duncan didn’t enjoy her wedding night?” asked Moray.

“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” he said.

A part of him wanted to confide in Moray, but his friend’s world was solidly contained within 108 High Street. The Lothian and the Tattler were everything to the obstinate bachelor. He couldn’t explain to a man like that that his wedding night had been so explosive, so soul-wringingly good that he’d bolted out of bed as soon as he’d come to his senses.

Ina had enjoyed herself too. He knew, from the tremble of her body, to her sighs, to her scream when her orgasm crested. He might have been able to walk away if he hadn’t witnessed the hunger in her—the need that said, Do that again—and he knew he had to walk away or risk falling under, so far gone he could never climb back out again.

“We were friends before and we’ll be friends again,” he said, nodding once and then turning back to his papers.

“If you need it, there’s a cot in my office,” said Moray. “Hardly ever use it myself.”

“That’s because you prefer to sleep in your desk chair,” muttered Eva.

Moray grunted. “Are you coming back up? We have advertisements to place.”

“In a moment,” she said.

When Moray shut the door, Eva seated herself in a chair in the corner, folded her hands over her knees, and assessed him with the look of a seasoned journalist who knows the man she’s interviewing is telling her spectacular lies.

Gavin sighed, setting his pen down. “What more do you want to know?”