He started writing before stopping and tossing the paper to the table. “Fuck it. I’ve got most of the shit I need here. C’mon, I’ll make it for lunch and show you how to do it.”

I followed Swedes into the kitchen.

Even if I fuck up, it’ll be better than that trash she had before.

I watched him pull out a shit-ton of ingredients, but nothing that resembled a jar of sauce.

Maybe.

* * *

Mac

“Hungry?” Ward asked when I opened the door at six sharp on Tuesday.

I’d been practicing my speech all day. Building my confidence. Working on my firm tone.

I was ready.

“Ward—”

“I made spaghetti with vegetables.”

I lifted a brow. “The same spaghetti and vegetables you mocked me for?”

“No.” He smirked over his shoulder. “These are edible.”

I’ll talk to him tomorrow.

* * *

Hollywood

It’d been a long day. A shit day.

I’d had big plans to cook something extra special for Mac, but after spending my Wednesday thoroughly searching every inch of a hotel suite while Glitch vetted the VIP staff, I was too tired.

I got the need for security. I got the need for caution. But when the B-list movie star wanted the extra measures so he could cheat on his wife without being sold out, it was a waste of my damn time, energy, and skills.

Not that I knew he was cheating on his wife. For all I knew, he had plans to dance naked through the suite and didn’t want anyone blackmailing him with hidden camera footage. Maybe he wanted to gorge himself on ice cream and weep at The Notebook.

Maybe he wanted to be in bed by nine and didn’t want TMZ to report he was the most boring celebrity in the world.

But my gut—and the fact he’d offered me a bump of coke before asking about good strip clubs in the area—said it was the cheating thing.

Even in my exhaustion, it didn’t occur to me to just go home and crash. I climbed off my bike and headed straight for my neighbor’s.

Mac answered the door, and I froze. Rather than her usual cute and comfortable pajamas, she wore a pair of skintight jeans and a top that showed off the curves she tried to downplay in baggier shirts. Her hair and makeup were done.

And she wore shoes.

Seems like she’s going out and wants to look good.

Too damn good.

“Hot date?” I asked, going for teasing. And, thanks to the bite in my voice, missing it by a long mile.

“Ha. Yeah, right. I just got home from the doctor.” I must’ve done a shit job hiding my alarm ’cause she quickly added, “A routine appointment with one of the doctors Ophelia recommended.”

“How’d it go?”