At least, it should be.
I got up and picked up my laptop. “I have some calls to make before we head out.” She had a hair appointment this afternoon, followed by a fitting, and obviously, I was going with her.
“Coffee?” she offered.
“Sure. Thank you.”
She refilled my mug for me. “I realize you’re helping me, too, Ronan.” She glanced at me, then watched as I put sugar in my coffee. “And maybe it pains me to admit that I need that help, but that’s my bad. My ego, maybe. That’s got nothing to do with you.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not. I tell myself I always give credit where credit is due…” She looked up into my eyes. “But I haven’t done that with you. So… thank you for doing what you do.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“Really, I appreciate it.” I stirred my coffee. “But no thanks are necessary.”
“I know you’re getting paid,” she said softly. “I know it’s a job. And maybe other guys could come in here and play tough guy. But you make me feel safe. There’s a difference.”
I picked up my mug, avoiding her blue eyes. “Thank you.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. Hearing her tell me that I made her feel safe was sending an adrenaline high straight to my dick. I really needed to clear out of here. “What time did you want to head out for your appointment?”
“One o’clock should do.”
“I’ll see you then.” I turned to head to my room, then paused. When I turned back to her, I would’ve sworn under oath that I caught her checking out my ass. “Any chance you’ll let me drive this time?”
She sipped her coffee, but I saw the smile in her eyes. “No chance at all.”
“You know, I have advanced driving training.”
I casually mentioned that to Summer as she changed lanes on Main Street—aggressively—and I gripped the “holy shit” handle above the passenger door. I’d gripped it pretty much all the way to the hair salon, and now we were heading to a fashion designer’s studio for her fitting.
If we got there in one piece.
“And your point would be…?” she said.
“I’m fully qualified to drive you and keep you safe at the same time. I’m not sure that’s true the other way around.”
She laughed. “Ronan Sterling. Does my driving make you nervous?”
“I wouldn’t say nervous. Though I’d feel more relaxed if you let me take the wheel.”
“That’s incredibly sexist of you.”
“I don’t think so. I prefer to drive my clients, when I’m on a close protection detail, no matter what gender they are.”
“Close protection?”
“It’s a term.”
“It sounds sexual. Just so you know.”
I glanced at her, then looked out the window. “Does everything sound sexual to you?” Judging by her playlist at the party last night, I was pretty sure I already knew the answer to that.
“Hmm.” She pretended to think about it. “Pretty much. My mind is firmly entrenched in the gutter and I’m quite happy to leave it there.”
I said nothing.
She looked at me. “Don’t even try to tell me your mind’s not in the gutter.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re a man,” she pointed out.
“Now that’s sexist.”
“Yet true.”
I cleared my throat. “Not all men think with their…”
“Dicks?” she supplied.
I said nothing.
“Did you seriously stop talking before you said the word dicks?”
“Do I need to answer that?” Unfortunately, I had a feeling she wasn’t gonna let this conversation drop. I wasn’t sure how to get out of it, because silence didn’t work with this woman.
It just egged her on.
“I don’t understand what just happened,” she said. “Did you just censor the word dick?”
“I was trying to be polite.”
“Why? You think I haven’t heard the word dick before? Dick, dick, dick.” She shook her head as she drove. “I’m disappointed in you, Ronan. Maybe you really haven’t put much research into my social circle after all…”
“You’re my client,” I reminded her.
“So you can’t say dick in front of me?”
“I was being respectful.”
She looked at me a few times as she drove, while I tried not to look at her. “Where do you come from? I don’t know men like you.”
“I guess you do now.”
“Hmm.”
“Maybe you could turn up the music,” I suggested.
She laughed and turned it up.
Not even a full song later, we reached our destination. It was an industrial building just off Venables Street in Strathcona, where there were a lot of artists’ studios. I happened to know that Xander Rush rented a studio in this neighborhood where he kept his drums.
Summer found us a parking spot on the street out front and made a call.
“We’re here!” she sang into the phone. “Okay, love.”
By the time we reached the door, a man opened it from inside, letting us into the building.
I recognized him from his photos. The neon-orange hair was hard to forget. Especially when it was on an incredibly fit black man who wore skintight clothing, including midriff baring shirts. He’d been wearing one in almost every photo I found when I looked him up online, and he was wearing one now—lime-green mesh—that barely covered his pierced nipples.
Actually, it didn’t really cover them at all.
His professional name was “Devoid.” He was a local fashion designer who custom-made some of Summer’s stage clothes. She’d told me she had a lot to replace since some of hers had been stolen, but I’d seen the walk-in closet in her bedroom, the extra wardrobe cases in her basement. From where I was looking, the woman had enough clothes to outfit the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders in hot club wear for the next decade or so. But hey, I was a dude.
And apparently, a lot less versed in fashion than some other dudes.
I scoped out Devoid as he and Summer greeted one another with hugs, kisses and what I could only describe as squeals. Then I turned my attention to the wide
