Page 58 of Spock’s Snare

His question makes me pause. “Yes. Exactly.”

He’s following the story instead of simply waiting for his turn to speak.

“I got to see everything up close,” I continue. “New builds that were nothing but framing when Dad first measured the space—renovations where crews stripped rooms down to the studs and rebuilt them. I watched plumbers, electricians, drywall crews, and tile setters. I saw how all the different trades had to work together and how one mistake could throw off everyone’s schedule.”

“Like putting up drywall before confirming the wiring is finished,” Spock says, his expression sharpening.

The reference to Blackwood and the demolished wall sends a flicker of tension through me. “Exactly. Which is why his explanation still bothers me. A competent foreman should have caught that before the drywall went up.”

“And you would’ve.”

It isn’t a question.

“I’d like to think so.”

“I know so.” His voice is firm. “You checked in with every crew at Inferno Ridge. You knew what stage each house was in, what needed to happen next, and whether the work matched the plans. Your people listen to you because you know what you’re doing.”

His certainty settles somewhere deep inside me. Too many men hear that I own a construction company and assume my father handed it to me—or that I sit in an office while men do the real work. Spock has watched me on my sites. More importantly, he has paid attention.

“I fell in love with the process,” I tell him. “Taking an empty lot or a broken-down building and turning it into something useful felt almost like magic. Dad created beautiful things from raw wood. I wanted to do the same thing on a different scale.”

“So you built DC Construction.”

“I did.”

For the first time in days, I’m not thinking about threats, sabotage, or the man who attacked my father.

I’m thinking about the way Spock sees me—not as someone who needs to be pushed aside and protected, but as a woman capable of building something worth protecting.

“Dessert?” Spock asks after they clear our empty plates.

I pat my stomach. “I’m too full.”

Spock’s hand settles against the small of my back as he guides me out of Cerberus to where he left his bike. He takes the helmet from the handlebars and holds it out to me.

He keeps one hand firmly around mine and the other at my waist as I climb onto the bike. Once I’m settled, he mounts in front of me.

“Back to Inferno Ridge?” I ask.

He nods.

I wrap my arms around his waist, trying not to think too hard about how natural the gesture has become. Spock starts the engine, and the powerful rumble vibrates through me. Moments later, we pull away from the casino and merge into the bright river of traffic flowing along the Strip.

I rest my cheek against the back of his leather kutte and watch the city streak past. Tonight has been an unexpected reprieve from everything waiting for me—the threats, the sabotage, Dad’s attack, and the growing certainty that someone wants to destroy my company.

For a few hours, I’ve simply been a woman having dinner with a man who not only listens to me, but respects what I’ve built.

When we finally leave the congestion behind, the familiar desert landscape opens around us. I know we’re getting close to Inferno Ridge, and disappointment settles heavily in my stomach. My truck is waiting there. Once I climb into it, the night ends.

Spock slows as we approach the turnoff.

Then, instead of turning left into Inferno Ridge, he turns right into the clubhouse parking lot.

The gate opens, and he guides the motorcycle through before parking near the front doors. When the engine goes silent, I pull off my helmet and look across the highway. Inferno Ridge is visible in the distance, my truck still parked beside the construction trailer.

“You missed the turn,” I point out.

“No, I didn’t.”