She spun and rested her hands on her hips. “I’ve gotten Ubers for years. I’ve also been an adult for years, too. That means I make my own decisions.”

“I’m leaving now. I’ll drop you at home.”

She dragged in a breath. “No.”

Easton grabbed his own jacket and shrugged into it. He looked up to find her staring at his chest. While she was distracted, he took her coat and held it out for her.

She shot him a disgruntled look, then turned and slipped into her coat. “You are so annoyingly bossy.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not even sorry.”

He paused. “Not really.” He stepped closer and her perfume hit him. It was a blend of something musky and sexy, with an undertone that was pure Harlow. “I’m dropping you off at home. I dragged you in here, it’s the least I can do.”

“Fine. But only because I love your car.” They headed toward the elevator.

They zoomed down to the parking garage and he led her to his gunmetal-gray Aston Martin Superleggera. When he opened the door, she slid in, flashing a lot of long leg.

He stared at the concrete ceiling and prayed for a break. Then he circled the car and slid in. The engine started with a purr.

He looked over. She was snuggling into the seat, stroking the leather.

Releasing a sharp breath, he imagined her stroking other things. With a mental curse, he roared out of the underground parking

“Do you know where I live?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Of course, you do. Control Freak Norcross doesn’t leave anything to chance.”

His hands flexed on the wheel. “I like control. It’s better than chaos.”

She made a rude noise. “You can’t control everything, Mr. Norcross. Life doesn’t work like that.”

“Easton. I think you should start calling me Easton when you berate me.”

He felt her looking at him.

“Fine. Easton.”

“And I’ve been in lots of uncontrolled situations…people died.” Shit, why had he said that? He looked straight ahead through the windshield.

She was silent for a moment. “You’re talking about the Army?”

Easton gave her a tight nod, then dragged in a breath. “I know I’m not in a war zone anymore.”

“Do you?” she asked quietly.

He turned a corner, the sports car hugging the turn. He headed to Haight-Asbury where Harlow’s apartment was.

“Yes,” he replied. “But if you can control your environment, it’s better. Safer. More likely to give you the results you want.”

Shocking him, she reached out and touched his thigh. “You don’t have to be ‘on’ all the time, Easton.”

The touch was electric. His hands flexed on the wheel. But she was wrong—he did. He didn’t know how to switch off.

He pulled onto her street.

“You can drop me at the corner,” she said.

“I’m walking you to your door.”