Wes raked a hand through his hair and did his best to focus on something less dangerous than his rekindled lust for Vivienne Grant.
Predictably, his mind turned to work. Or at least what he would have considered work before he’d become a disgraced cybersecurity specialist with nothing to his name.
The cameras in the hallway were almost undetectable, which impressed him, but the coverage pattern left a lot to be desired.
So far, he’d rate the building’s security as decent. Which wasn’t nearly good enough considering the caliber of vehicles in the parking garage. The elevator had been laughably easy to override, and the security panels on the doors they passed wouldn’t take much more effort to crack. A skilled burglar could clean up.
He’d shore up a few things while he was here. And change her goddamn password.
Christ. Dead mothers’ birthdays could get you into houses, safes, bank accounts...especially if the mark had lost hers young, like Vivienne had.
Not that he was that surprised by the reversion. Viv had always been sentimental—to the point of packrat-itis.
That was probably why he still hadn’t made it past the foyer.
“Make yourself at home,” she’d said, but the words struck a dissonant chord in his brain.
They’d shared a tiny apartment while she was finishing her undergrad at UCLA and he was still busting his ass landscaping, trying to get Soteria Security off the ground. Back then, when being with her had been his version of “home,” Vivienne had stuffed their space with nostalgia—framed photos of friends, mementos from trips, the blanket her mother had knit.
This place was sterile. Barren.
It had less personality than some hotel rooms he’d been in.
Wes ventured farther into the condo, reminding himself that she wasn’t his concern anymore. She hadn’t been for a long time now.
But the truth of that didn’t stop him from taking in her home through the lens of their past. To his left was a professional chef’s wet dream—way too much kitchen for a woman who used to pride herself on how many take-out places’ numbers she knew by heart. Straight ahead sat a spacious living room/dining room combo with a killer view of the city. Vivienne had always been a sucker for a view.
Dark wood floors, light taupe walls, an uninviting, high-backed cream couch. Nothing in the bold hues she used to favor.
Hell, even the meticulously hung abstract paintings that dotted the walls were drab. Which, he assured himself, was the only reason his gaze snagged on the single punch of pigment in the bland suite—a vase of wilted tiger lilies centered on the fancy dining room table.
It certainly wasn’t because he’d given her some before their first official date—Viv insisted that the night they’d met at that stupid frat party, which they’d bailed on to get drunk at a divey little Mexican joint before consummating their lust in the unisex bathroom and then groping their way back to her dorm room so they could love each other until the sun came up, didn’t really count as a date.
Either way, it still ranked as one of the best nights of his life.
So when he’d shown up the next night to take her to a movie, armed with a bouquet of orange blooms, it had been a joke, a callback to her taco-and-margarita-fueled rant about flowers being a cop-out gift. “The pinnacle of generic present giving,” she’d called them. “Little more than socially acceptable thoughtlessness.”
He’d been hooked on her right from the start.
The way she’d stared down her nose at them when she’d opened the door.
“Flowers?”
“The perfect flowers, yes.” He held them out to her, but she made no move to accept them.
“You’re pretty, but you don’t listen so good, huh?”
“Oh, I listen just fine. And what I heard is that the wrong guys have been giving you flowers.”
The unimpressed arch of her eyebrow stoked his competitive streak. “Because you’re the right guy to give me flowers?”
“No.” Wes stepped closer. “I’m just the guy who’s giving you the right flowers.”
Something subtle shifted in her eyes at the distinction. She finally accepted them. “And how come these made you think of me?”
Wes held up a finger. “Because they’re beautiful.”
She didn’t bother to temper her eye roll. “And the same color as cheese, apparently.”
Undeterred, he held up a second finger. “Because they’re named after a sleek, dangerous predator.”
She was adorable when she scoffed. “So I’m a tiger, and that makes you what? My helpless sex antelope?”
Smart and smart-mouthed. The desire to kiss her was overwhelming, but he couldn’t afford the distraction. Not when she was so close to being charmed.
“And last but not least—” Wes raised a third finger “—they’re ballsy as hell.”
Heedless of her present, she crossed her arms, and the cellophane crinkled as it got trapped under her elbow. “Oh, this I can’t wait to hear.”
“These flowers are cat-killers. Notoriously toxic for felines and yet they’re named after one. That’s some hard-core badassery, right there.”
She uncrossed her arms and looked at the flowers, as though reassessing. “That’s the story you’re going with? That I remind you of a sleek, dangerous, pet-murdering predator?”
Wes placed a hand on either side of her door frame and leaned forward, waiting until she lifted her gaze from the bouquet to him. “A beautiful, sleek, dangerous, pet-murdering predator.” He took a step closer. “Don’t forget beautiful.”
Something sparked in her chocolate-colored eyes, the heat of it turning them melty and inviting, and his blood picked up. “Is it weird that I’m kind of turned on by that description?”
God, this woman. Wes hoped his shrug looked casual, even as his knuckles whitened against the jamb, his restraint as thin as a razor’s edge. “I mean, I dared to hope.”
“Also, I have a very strong urge to donate a large sum of money to a local cat shelter.”
“We could
