This knowledge weighed heavily on me as I looked to the top of the iron stairway and saw a large, square, warehouse door to the side of which were big, modern, black metal letters that said Unit 8.

“What are you doing, Livvie?” I whispered.

But even doing so, without delay, I pushed open my door and swung my carnation pink patent leather Jimmy Choo, spike-heeled pump out.

I got out of my car. I beeped the locks. I walked up the iron steps. And I stood in the recess, knocking on the big, square door.

I dropped my hand and my head, staring at the pointed toes of my fabulous pumps peeking out from the bootleg hems of my expertly faded (because I bought them that way), low-rise jeans.

“I should not be here,” I whispered to my toes.

You are not hard to look at.

I squeezed my eyes tight.

You’re sharp and smart and funny.

I swallowed.

And straight up, I’d rather sit around eatin’ spaghetti talkin’ to you while lookin’ at you before I fuck you than sit in my place by myself waitin’ for you to show and climb on my dick.

Maybe I could do this.

Because he could do this.

He didn’t want any attachments.

He knew the boundaries.

He wanted nothing to do with my family (smart man) and he wanted my family to have nothing to do with him (again, smart).

He knew. He knew he existed in our world the way he did, which was providing integral services to people who could afford them.

And he knew I existed in our world as part of my family’s business which was just plain toxic in our world and any other (thus he wanted nothing to do with it).

He’d keep me on the straight and narrow.

I heard a loud noise that sounded like scraping steel and then another one that sounded like heavy steel rolling on steel. I lifted my head and watched the door slide to the side.

Like last night when he’d shown for the first time wearing jeans, a Henley and a leather jacket rather than opening the door in a dress shirt and nice trousers, Nick Sebring was at home in comfort.

Thus casual.

Tonight, not a nice Henley and faded jeans.

Faded jeans and what appeared to be a cobalt blue V-neck cashmere sweater.

At the sight of him my clit started tingling.

“Yeah,” he whispered and the tone of that word made my gaze go from his wide chest to his face.

My stomach turned over.

His eyes stopped traveling the length of me and cut back to my face.

“Rather look at you while I’m eatin’ spaghetti than do it alone,” he finished.

That felt nice.

No, I should not be there.

“Uh…hey,” I pushed out.

His mouth quirked, he took one step toward me, grabbed my hand and pulled me in.