A Porsche this nice isn’t something a regular paycheck can purchase, especially one on a bartender’s salary. Hell, even with my parents’ money, they don’t roll around in vehicles that cost six figures. He and Archer have high-end rides, never seem to be in need of cash, and even though they don’t walk around in expensive clothes, theirs aren’t cheap.

I know quality clothing, and they wear quality clothing.

Maybe they come from money.

And that’s how he can afford such luxury.

It’s hard for me not to be curious about these things anymore. Quinton came from money, so I never questioned how he afforded his Mercedes, the five-hundred-dollar meals, and Tiffany jewelry. It turns out, most of it was probably purchased with money he’d earned selling drugs to my fellow coeds.

Lincoln’s voice snaps me out of my questioning haze. “You finished yet, my little criminal?” The midnight-blue baseball hat he’s wearing covers his ebony-black hair and shields half his face.

As I step closer, a gust of wind whips around, pushing the masculine scent of him mingled with the tropical air freshener in his car toward me.

“All done.” I toss the gloves into my trash bag. “What are you doing?”

Not going to lie, him being here is mortifying. It was the same the last time. There is nothing worse—okay, other than being arrested because you dated a criminal—than the guy you’re crushing on seeing you picking up trash, looking like the so-called convict you hate. And it’s not like I dressed up for the occasion in my old jeans and ill-fitting sweatshirt.

He shifts the car into park and relaxes in the leather seat. “I was in the neighborhood and figured you needed lunch after a hard day’s work.”

I need lunch, a shower, and then a shot of vodka.

With the sun shining in my eyes, I lower my hand over my brows to get a better view of him. “Your treat?”

“My treat, you little hellion.”

I half-shrug. “Sounds good to me.”

Whistling, he jerks his thumb toward his passenger seat, and I hear the click of the doors unlocking. I make a pit stop to check out with Helga, the monster in charge of community service.

On my first day, she asked if I was ready to get whipped into shape and said, “Helga doesn’t like slackers. Helga sends slackers back to jail. Don’t piss off Helga.”

I’m pretty sure I pissed her off as I snorted to hold in my laughter.

After tossing the bag into the trash, I stop at my car to grab my purse and pour sanitizer into my hands on my walk to Lincoln’s car.