“I’m a man who, when I see something I want, I go after it with everything I’ve got.” And he was finally accepting that he wanted Harlow Carlson.

He liked flirting with her, liked watching her work, liked fighting with her.

“I can’t process that right now.”

He squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to. Right now, I’ll get you safe. That’s the most important thing.”

He drove into the Pacific Heights neighborhood, turning onto Broadway.

“Of course, you live on Billionaire’s Row,” she muttered.

“There are seven places in San Francisco claiming to be Billionaire’s Row.”

She snorted. “This is the main one. Everyone knows that.”

He slowed and turned. He thumbed the remote on the dash and his garage doors opened.

Harlow looked out the window.

“Oh my God, I knew you were rich, but—” She shook her head, taking in his four-story, cream stucco mansion. It took up a spacious corner block. “It looks like an apartment building and a Tuscan mansion had a love child.”

Shaking his head, he drove into the garage. Lights clicked on automatically, and the door closed behind them. He parked beside his black Audi R8 Spyder.

Harlow got out, spinning around and taking it all in. “You have a four-car garage. And a second sports car.”

“There’s a gym and wine cellar down here, too.” He pulled his coat off and slipped his keys into his pocket. “Come on.”

He led her to an elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. They ascended. When the doors opened, he waved her out.

“Oh, wow.” Her heels clicked on the wooden floor. She moved toward the central circular staircase, taking in the black iron railings as the staircase circled downward and upward to the top floor. “Wow.”

Easton gripped her elbow. “This way.” He led her into the kitchen and casual living area.

She paused, taking in the large island covered in white stone, the large, double Sub-Zero fridge, and the dark-metal range hood over the Viking stove.

“God, these appliances.” She stroked the island.

There was also an oval-shaped wooden table, and a comfortable living area with built-in shelves around a flatscreen TV. A sleek, gray couch faced it.

A wall of French doors opened onto a grassed area walled in by a tall, green hedge for privacy.

“How many bedrooms?” she asked.

“Six.”

“Bathrooms?”

“Nine. Two are half baths.”

She choked out a laugh. “Oh, well then.” She spun. “Just how rich are you?”

“Really rich.” His gut tightened. Would she look at him differently?

She shook her head. “You should totally chill out more. It’s not like you need more money.”

Easton leaned against the island. To be honest, he wasn’t sure how to slow down. He needed the challenge of his work, the purpose.

Her gaze went to his hand, her face changing. “Do you have a first aid kit in this giant house of yours?”