That wasn’t cool.

That wasn’t who I was, and I needed to rein in my critical thoughts about a man I knew nothing about.

Not only had my attitude and comments—albeit most of them internal—been uncool but Adam Newcomb was a member of Club Joi. I couldn’t afford to get fired, which was exactly what would happen if Adam complained about me to my boss.

So I did something I didn’t want to do and I did it with a fake smile plastered on my face.

I accepted.

“Where would you like to meet for dinner?”

He didn’t gloat, he didn’t smirk, he didn’t so much as grin when he asked, “Do you live at the beach or near here?”

Fuck.

“I live near here, but I have no problem driving to the beach if you prefer.”

He pulled out his wallet, fished out a business card, and held it out.

“You pick,” he told me when I took the card. “I’m available any time after seven. Text me where and I’ll make a reservation.” He paused and leveled me with an intense stare that made my belly feel funny. “I really hope you text, Sloane. But if you don’t, no hard feelings. Understand?”

He was leaving the ball in my court and wouldn’t complain to my boss if I didn’t call.

“Understand.”

“Sorry to have held you up. Have a great rest of your day shopping.”

With that, he strolled away.

I watched him go for longer than I should have, and I did it with my eyes alternating between his ass and taking in the way his t-shirt stretched across his wide shoulders.

He had a great walk.

He had an even better ass.

I could do this.

I could have dinner with a handsome man who was off-limits, and I could work with him to plan an event.

It would be hell, but so was the rest of my life.

3

“I think she’s trying to kill you,” Cole said from the passenger seat as I rolled to a stop at the bottom of Decker Canyon. “And by you I mean us.”

I had to admit, the hairpin turns and heavy grade through the Santa Monica Mountains were a little dicey, but it wasn’t death-defying.

“Damn, brother, I didn’t know you were squeamish.”

“Squeamish? I counted five rusted-out carcasses of cars down in the ravine. And it’s a long drop, friend. A long, terrifying, ass-puckering drop.”

“How do you manage to live in Idaho?” I asked as I waited for the traffic to clear.

Once the traffic broke and I had a clear shot, I swung left onto Pacific Coast Highway and headed south toward our rental, which incidentally was fifteen miles down PCH from the eleven-thousand-square-foot Malibu mansion that was home to Club Joi.

The rental my boss, Wilson McCray, managed to snag wasn’t eleven thousand square feet, but it was a multi-million-dollar, luxury home with a kickass deck that overlooked the Pacific. And I was pretty sure I saw Dustin Hoffman walking his dog along the surf just that morning while I was sitting on a lounger drinking coffee. In other words, the two-thousand-square-foot home on Broad Beach might not be a mansion, but it was Charlie Harper swank. It was also a necessity. It wouldn’t do for a rich businessman to live in a shithole. And for this assignment that was what I was, a rich businessman with a kink—the kind that only Club Joi could provide.