And I was getting ready to call her bluff.

“Sweetness?” I called.

Those pretty eyes lifted, and it felt like a punch to the gut.

Beautiful but wicked.

Fuck.

“Yeah?”

“Earlier when I asked you to dinner you told me you didn’t date men from the club.”

Sloane shifted uncomfortably and her gaze slid away before I read the change in her expression. But if I had to guess it was repentant and in order to ascertain if I was correct, I needed her eyes back.

“Eyes, Sloane.”

At my demand, her gaze snapped to mine and flashed fire.

Oh, yeah, all the alluding, all the banter, all the teasing was bullshit.

“I’ve never dated a man from the club.”

I didn’t want to, but I believed her.

“Since that’s the case, gotta ask this a different way,” I started and swallowed down my disgust. “You said date, not fuck. Wouldn’t’ve brought it up but you’re giving me mixed signals and just so we’re on the same page I’m asking, if instead of dinner I invited you to my bed would I’ve gotten a different answer?”

I watched her slowly swallow and her cheeks bloom pink, two conflicting responses that confused the hell out of me.

Which meant I pushed to get a reaction.

“Know employees can and most of them do, but I’ve never seen you participate. So, I’m thinking you prefer privacy.”

“I prefer privacy,” she confirmed.

Her verification was wholly unnecessary—the look of relief that passed over her body was clearly visible.

My gut revolted as I set my elbows on the table, leaned over my empty plate, and lied through my fucking teeth, which had never been a problem while I was on a job but right then it felt wrong. “Saying it straight, sweetness, I hope like fuck I’m not misreading the vibe and you’re interested in coming home with me.”

What I actually hoped was that there was a damn good reason for her personality transplant.

“I want to go home with you,” she whispered.

What the fuck?

More conflict.

More uncertainty.

The woman absolutely did not want to go home with me, which would’ve been a hit to my ego if I wasn’t so goddamn pissed she was agreeing to something she clearly had no desire to do.

In an effort to calm my temper I sat back in the booth and took her in. So fucking gorgeous. I knew she was two years younger than me at thirty-eight, but she could easily pass for twenty-one. It was obvious she took care of herself—flawless skin, shiny, artfully highlighted brown hair, manicured nails, toned, lean body. Now that I’d seen her outside the club, I understood Work Sloane was very different from Casual Sloane. Work Sloane was tricked out to the nines—heavy, sultry makeup, sexy cocktail dresses, hair perfectly styled. Casual Sloane was just that—minimal makeup, cute but still sexy sundress, hair loose around her shoulders, and with all of that she was relaxed. Earlier I’d watched her shop, I’d watched her interactions with shop owners, I’d watched her bop in and out of stores and walk down the street smiling, happy, and comfortable.