His gaze aimed up, locked to hers as she moved in front of him. He then turned his head to watch her fold gracefully into the chair beside him.

“It’ll take at least twenty minutes to get three more guys here, Nick. And Stark reported the threat is imminent,” his boy reported.

Giving an important situation his attention, Nick looked to his shoes, his legs stretched out, his feet crossed in front of him. “Okay, Casey, then stop talkin’ to me, get the boys there, even if they show as reinforcements, and do your job.”

“There could be casualties.”

“Just as long as those casualties aren’t my guys or the woman you’re keepin’ safe, I’m okay with that.”

“Right, Nick. I’m on it.”

“Later. And report back.”

“You got it.”

He disconnected and looked back to Olivia to see her attention on him.

She arched one haughty, princess brow.

“Work issues?” she asked.

Cool customer, hot as fuck.

And cute.

Shit.

“There are a few arms in my business that can be more than your average risky,” he answered.

“I see,” she said in her soft voice, turning her head away and lifting her drink to take a sip.

“Melon?” he guessed at her drink.

“And vodka,” she murmured against the rim of the glass.

He was hoping it was just pussy-booze, like Midori, something that was lame that she liked that he would find unappealing about her.

But no.

She had to have the added vodka.

“There’s a new Ross,” she noted.

“Hmm…” he muttered noncommittally, being the reason why they’d employed a new Ross at the club and not about to explain that.

He reached to his whisky.

She turned to him again. “I’m surprised. I’ve been a member for years now and they’ve had no turnover in staff.”

He shrugged. “Shit happens.”

She looked to the scene in a way he knew she didn’t see it, murmuring, “I don’t like it.”

“The woman could have found a higher paying job, or she got married, or a hundred other things, Olivia. Your business is not hers, her business is not yours. It’s the way of the club.”

She nodded at the scene but said nothing.

“You wanna tell me why dinner with your mother lasted nearly four hours?” he asked.

“I was ambushed,” she replied.

He felt his neck start to itch.

Ambushed?

“Say again?” he pushed.

She looked to him. “I was ambushed. It was not dinner with my mother. It was dinner with my mother, one of her friends and her friend’s son.”

That was when Nick felt his jaw tense and his repeat of, “Say again,” was gritty.

“It was a fixup,” she explained offhandedly.

But the blazing streak of jealousy Nick experienced at her words was alarming.

And unhealthy.

And last, so severe and unexpected, he had no tools at hand to battle it in order to ignore it.