JAMESON
The redhead was hot as hell.
That thought had taken up permanent residence in my head—every damn time I saw her. And after actually talking to her today? Forget it. She wasn’t leaving anytime soon.
Sutton Ross. Twenty-three. Smart, confident, and entirely too young for me, but already sharper than half the people on my payroll.
I hadn’t realized she lived in my building until my assistant dropped her address on my desk. Then I couldn’t stop wondering why I hadn’t run into her in the gym, or the lobby, or anywhere I could meet her as a neighbor instead of her boss.
The limo rolled to a stop in front of my building, and I noticed I’d been staring at the same unfinished email for ten minutes. My focus was shot, hijacked by the image of red hair and green eyes.
I looked up—and there she was.
Sutton stepped out through the glass doors like she owned the place, dragging a bright red suitcase behind her. No concierge. No help. Just that fitted green coat hugging her curves and catching the light like a challenge.
My pulse kicked. My body followed.
Too long—it had been too damn long. The flings, the casual hookups, the polite dinner dates that went nowhere—all of it suddenly meaningless. Because the second I saw her, every other woman disappeared.
The realization hit hard, a punch to the chest. I shoved open the door and stepped out, ready to help her with her bag, but the driver got there first. His job. Fine. Still, the sight of him touching what was hers sparked a sharp, unfamiliar possessiveness. I wanted to do it. I wanted to help her with everything.
I had no idea what the hell to do with that feeling.
She froze when she spotted the limo, mouth parting slightly. Then her gaze locked on me.
“Is that—are we—” She gestured at the car. “I thought you were just sending a ride.”
“I did.” I gestured toward the vehicle. “This is it.”
“This is a limousine.”
“Good eye.”
She laughed—bright and startled, hitting me square in the chest. “I’ve never been in a limo before.”
“Never?”
“I’m from Idaho, Jameson. We don’t exactly do this there.” She waved at the car like it had landed from Mars.
The driver loaded her suitcase and held the door. I motioned for her to go first. She hesitated, then slid inside.
I followed, the door sealing shut with a soft, expensive click.
The space felt smaller than it should have. She was pressed against the far side of the seat, her hands folded in her lap, taking in the leather interior, the ambient lighting, the small bar stocked with water and champagne—and the subtle garland wrapped around the privacy partition, tiny white lights twinkling softly.
“There’s champagne,” she said quietly.
“We don’t have to open it.”
“I know. It’s just—wow.” She turned to me, green eyes wide and bright. “This is insane.”
“It’s a car.”
“It’s absolutely not just a car.” She ran her palm over the seat. “This is nicer than my apartment.”
Her apartment was in the same building as mine—one of the most expensive buildings in Pleasure Valley. But I didn’t want to get into all that. Instead, I pulled out my tablet.
“We should go over the plan.”
