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“What about one of those brownstones on Hudson Street?”

Amanda freezes.

Then she laughs.

Actually laughs.

This little brat.

“A brownstone in Hoboken?”

She snorts.

“What'd you do? Rob a bank on the way over?”

I scratch the back of my neck and watch her walk away—mostly because I can’t stop staring at that ass of hers.

Hmm.

Apparently, there are some things about my current job I need to explain.

Like the fact that Sigma's executive compensation package includes Volkov Industries stock.

Like the fact that my investments have done very, very well.

Like the fact that I made over eight million dollars last year alone off my investments.

Not that I give a shit about money.

Never really have.

But if my girl wants a brownstone?

She's getting a brownstone.

Hell, she can have the whole damn block.

Still.

Probably best not to casually mention millions while she's standing there barefoot picking my shirt up off the floor and looking like every fantasy I've ever had come to life.

Yeah, we'll have that conversation later.

And of course, it’s right when my mind is in the gutter that she starts heading toward the front door—away from me.

I frown, of course, and am about to object when someone starts ringing the bell with enough force to wake the dead.

Probably our dinner.

We ordered in since neither of us felt like cooking. Which is totally fine. Hell, she never has to cook if she doesn’t want to.

I am more than willing to cook, order, take her out—whatever.

But what is not fine is my woman is wearing only a thin sports bra and the tiniest pair of shorts on the planet—and she’s about to open the fucking door.

Hell. No.

“Hold on,” I growl.