So, she’d pull herself up by her bootstraps…or she would when she found her boots. She was pretty sure they were in the back seat of her car, so that was one stroke of good luck to be grateful for.
“The only thing that overcomes hard luck is hard work.”
Yeah, yeah, I know. Time to get on with it.
With her sandals in her hand, she scooped up the cherished pieces of her grandma’s memory and padded barefoot across the room and down the hall. She hovered near the entry to a cavernous open space larger than her whole apartment, but her sole focus was on the man pacing the floor-to-ceiling windows with a phone to his ear.
Avery Preston was more than the playboy billionaire that social media made him out to be, more than the fuckboy she’d labeled him. He was intelligent, witty, charming, of course, and quite the gentleman when the need arose, like last night when he’d said no to her humiliating display of…
Fuck, she didn’t even know what to call it. She’d thrown herself at him, and he’d turned her down and taken care of her.
Yeah, he still had some growing up to do and needed to figure out his priorities, but he could be thoughtful and generous, not just with his money, but with his strength and attention, and deep down he cared. She could feel it in the way he held her, see it in the way he looked at her, as if he could see through the wall she hid behind.
Or maybe she was just fooling herself, and if she wasn’t careful, he’d dig deep enough to break the hard shell around her heart. She could already feel it crumbling like an overbaked pie crust.
“Did he get the pictures from the police?” he asked whoever he was on the phone with. Probably Nick. “Why not?”
He pivoted, and those chocolatey eyes swept over her then doubled back. His frown dissolved into a smile, and her stomach flipped like a pancake on a hot griddle. He held up one finger.
“No.” He shifted back to the windows, gifting Jo with a view that rivaled the cityscape. “I’m working from home.”
Long and sinewy, his legs were encased in designer jeans that cupped his ass in a way that made her want to bite it. One slender hip cocked, he braced a hand there, fingers spread, ring glinting, and forearms corded below the bunched-up sleeves of his black pullover. The material stretched across wide, muscular shoulders that carried his fair share of the family business, and she’d added to his burden.
But that was something she would fix as soon as he finished with his call.
Drifting farther into the loft-like space, she ran a hand over the marble-topped island, not quite but almost as big as the one in his mom’s kitchen. She imagined rolling out a puff pastry, the marble keeping it cool so the butter between the layers didn’t melt as it did on the Formica in her apartment.
At the other end, the box with a wilted red bow sat alongside the cactus she’d insisted they save. Proud and erect, Spike seemed happy to see her. She smiled at her own joke as she turned the faucet to a trickle and held the mug under it just long enough to give the big boy a drink and set him back on the island.
Bored and undeniably nosy, she explored the door next to the refrigerator to see if it was what she suspected. Bingo. The walk-in pantry was huge, organized, and fully stocked. A chef’s wet dream. Lucky housekeeper.
She shut the door and turned to find Avery off his phone and watching her from across the living room. She smiled and shrugged. “Sorry, the hazards of inviting a pâtissier into your home. We love kitchens, especially ones like this.”
“You’re welcome to use it any time.” He sauntered toward her.
Holy fuck, how did he make his hips move like that?
She sighed. “Be careful. I might take you up on that.”
But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t stay here and would likely never come back. Sure, she still intended to have sex with him if he hadn’t changed his mind after last night, butsleepingwith him again was out of the question. She’d liked spending the night, wrapped in his arms, far too much.
He stopped at the other end of the island, and she tried not to stare. He’d showered, and his hair, black and shiny like the crude oil they’d pumped out of Jeopardy, was slicked back, except for the strand that hung low on his forehead.
Jo resisted the impulse to finger comb her own hair. It would only make it worse. Not that she could get any worse in the dress with yesterday’s drama smeared across her boobs, belly, and ass. At least she’d washed her face and raccoon eyes.
No wonder he didn’t want to have sex with me.
“After I talked to Nick last night, he called Dave Hardy, the private investigator who works for the security company P.E. keeps on retainer, and he agrees with us that you have a stalker.”
Jo hadn’t wanted it to be true, but hearing the word out loud confirmed the reality she could no longer avoid.
“I gave him Murdick’s name,” Avery continued. “And I gave him a description of the junkie. You called him Lenny, right?”
“You think Lenny might have done this?” She didn’t think so. His only obsession was with drugs.
“No, but he might have seen who did. If he was there at the time. The police got nothing from your neighbors.”
“There’s only the one couple next door, and they work…sometimes. The other units on my floor are empty.” But that wasn’t the point she needed to make. “I really appreciate the thought, but please tell Mr. Hardy never mind. I can’t afford to pay him, and I’m already indebted to you as it is.”
