Once we enter through the opening gates, I park in front of the pack home. Adelaide swings off the bike and turns toward the house. Her mouth parts at the sight.
I get off the bike, remove my helmet, then take the one she peels off and hook both of them onto the handlebars. I enjoy the look on her face because, honestly, it’s worth the ride all by itself.
“You live here?” she asks.
I grin and grab her bags from the compartment under the seat. “You like it?”
She looks at me, then back at the house, and then back at me again like maybe I’ve personally committed fraud. “You said you were all surfers and work at luaus.”
“All true.”
She waves a hand at the property. “You left out… all this mansion by the beach.”
Fair. The place is a lot at first sight. Wide and low and built to make a point without trying too hard. Dark timber and stone walls, huge windows facing straight out to the ocean. Gates already shut behind us and cameras tucked into the corners. There’s a beach beyond the back deck, on a quiet stretch too. No crowds or noise, just sand and water.
“We like privacy,” I add.
“This isn’t privacy. This is the kind of place where rich people disappear their enemies.”
“Good security isn’t a crime.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Right.”
I start along the path at the side of the house, her bags over one shoulder now, and she follows me.
Since the bike ride, her scent has been swallowing me, and it’s close to impossible to think about anything else but her.
Fuck.
I have to remind myself to keep walking like a normal man and not some half-feral idiot trying to breathe deeper without being obvious about it. My cock gives a slow, heavy throb just from having her this close again, and I nearly swear out loud.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Actually, no. I know exactly what’s wrong with me.
Her.
I punch in the code and push the door open. “Come on.”
Adelaide steps inside and pauses to take it all in. The main room opens straight through to the deck and the beach beyond it, glass doors that fold back to the sea. Wooden floors, low furniture, in soft neutral colors that Ace claimed made the place feel calm.
Adelaide stands just inside the doorway, staring out at the water. “Okay,” she says.
I shut the door behind us. “Yeah.”
“This is not a surfer house.”
I chuckle as. “That feels discriminatory.”
She turns toward me. “Luca. This place has better lighting than most boutique hotels.”
“Natural light is free.”
She snorts and walks farther inside in her flip-flops. Her hair is still a salt-tangled mess from the beach. Shorts low on herhips, hugging that cute ass. Little top doing absolutely nothing to help me think. I’m watching her move through the room and trying not to picture her here in the morning, at night, and maybe in one of my shirts.
Dangerous line of thought.
“So,” she says. “Is one of you secretly loaded?”
