“Trust me,” he said, his low voice ticking down her vertebrae. “Lyon is as good as a bloodhound.”
Even sexier when he teases back.
Landon walked for the front door and she turned the opposite direction, impressed that she’d avoided ogling his backside as he walked away. She’d noticed earlier he looked as good coming as going… which made her have a brief, dirty thought she had to force from her mind as she neared Lyon’s room.
At the threshold, it appeared a rogue cyclone had struck the six-year-old’s bedroom in the time it took for her to wind her way through the maze of corridors and hallways. She blinked at the mess.
“Ready to play?” Lyon asked, a huge toothy grin on his face. Well, toothy save for the one missing from the front.
Kimber took in her dress and black and white spectator pumps, then glanced over at the pile of uncapped magic markers on the carpet. She’d dressed to impress Landon, but it was apparent that she needed to change her clothes… and her expectations.
As fun as it was to flirt with her charge’s uncle, as much as she wanted to coax a smile to Landon’s lips and the knee-weakening laugh from his chest, she was not here for him. Her focus, her priority, was the little boy in front of her.
Not Landon, she reminded herself as a pang of loss shook through her chest. Not even if he sprouted a pair of dimples to go with that sexy divot in his chin.
* * *
Landon parked in his private garage, lifted his briefcase from the floorboard of his BMW, and stepped out. If not for the cardboard box stuffed with Windy City potato chips he’d brought home for Kimber, today might be like any other weekday. A day where his only plans would be a glass of scotch and a long night of work ahead of him. Hell, it’d been a long night already.
Picturing Kimber caused a smile, albeit a tired one, to inch across half his mouth. He juggled the box, the briefcase, and his keys, and walked to the elevator. Once inside, he nodded at Tony, the security guy, and inserted a key for the private penthouse on the thirtieth floor.
He met his haggard reflection in the steel doors of the lift as it carried him up. He looked like hell. Tie offset, jacket crumpled over one arm, five-o’clock shadow decorating his jaw. When he’d gotten into advertising, he’d imagined gliding around pristine offices and efficiently checking items off his to-do list. What he ended up doing most of the time was working from dawn well into the middle of the night, hammering away at an idea contented to stay underdeveloped.
He’d always had a precise, specific style when it came to design. Clean, crisp organization on a page. Blame it on his perfectionist streak, or on the control-freak-first-born characteristic alive and well within him. The style suited him. It also suited high-end products in the industry, part of the reason for Downey Design’s success in a short period of time. He’d experienced further success since having paired with his successful cousin. Shane’s business had shooed in several accounts and they hadn’t yet celebrated their first year together.
Not that Landon hadn’t done well on his own. Downey Design had created advertising packages for private airlines, liquor companies, and fancy electronics. But, as profitable as ads were for companies like Bose and Apple, he’d coveted a chunk of the ever-profitable food industry. Windy City had landed in his lap, whetting his appetite further.
Food was the commonality between all classes. Food owned the highest percentage of all aired commercials, and not just during big football games, but during every hour of every day. Windy City was his opportunity to break into the industry. The elevator doors opened on his private floor. He intended not only to succeed in that endeavor, but knock the potato chip company’s ad design right out of the park.
Regardless of how many nights I come home after ten o’clock, he thought with a weary sigh.
He walked through the open, empty foyer to his front door and unlocked the deadbolt. His penthouse didn’t appear much different from most nights he returned from work. The small dining room table gleamed, a pile of mail neatly stacked in one corner. The contemporary lighting fixtures over the kitchen island were on, casting a soft glow onto the cabinets and reflecting off their glass doors. He dropped his briefcase and jacket onto the chair and edged the box of snacks onto the table.
The house was silent as he pocketed his keys. No apparent sign of either of its inhabitants. Then, a flash of copper waves and skin appeared in his peripheral vision.
A lot of skin.
Kimber entered from the hallway, head down as she punched what was likely a text into her phone. She wore short cotton shorts, the cuffs tickling two of the most delicious-looking thighs he’d ever laid eyes on. His mouth went dry.