“You are not always right, Nick Rogers,” she proclaims when she sees it, stroking my cheek. “But don’t worry. I’ll catch you when you fall.”
“Don’t I owe you a spanking?”
“It really is starting to seem like you’re all talk and no action,” she replies, twisting away from me and giving me a sexy glance over her shoulder. “Come, my hungry man. I have the world’s most perfect burger for you.”
My man.
She’s learning.
I am her man.
I follow, but not for the burger. For the shake of her curvy and perfect ass in those jeans, and somehow my mind still works enough to ask, “Do you have the instructions for shipping your paintings? We need to arrange to have someone pick them up.”
She pauses at the door, and faces me. “I looked it up when I submitted my final paperwork. They have special arrangements with FedEx and there’s a location right up the road.”
“Then we’ll go after lunch,” I say, stepping beside her, and because I just can’t help myself, which is pretty damn unfamiliar to me, I give her a quick kiss and open the door.
“Food is literally three minutes away,” she says once we’re in the car and pulling onto the main road. “Just turn right, drive a mile, and we’re there.”
“Got it,” I say. “Food. One mile.” I glance over at her. “Dessert when we return home, and it’s not ice cream.”
“Oh. We need more ice cream. I have to have ice cream when I’m here. It’s kind of like Sonoma survival. A survival kit that is cream, sugar, and calories.”
“Why do you need a survival kit?”
“You’re about to find out,” she assures me, but doesn’t give me time to press for details. “So,” she continues, “we eat. Then we need to go by FedEx and the grocery store.”
“And to get boxes so you can pack some of your things to ship to San Francisco. We can arrange to have Fed Ex pick them up tomorrow with your paintings. Then it can all be waiting on you when we return Sunday night.” I pull us into the restaurant driveway and park.
“That’s expensive, Nick.” I open my mouth to object and she holds up a hand. “Don’t tell me not to worry about money. You didn’t get rich by throwing away money. Don’t expect me to start throwing it away for you.”
“And I appreciate that, sweetheart, but the sooner you’re with me in San Francisco, the happier a man I’ll be.”
“I said yes for a reason. I’m already with you, Nick.”
I lean over and kiss her. “Keep saying yes. I like that answer.” She smiles, and I like that, too. I’m so fucking in love with this woman, it’s insanity, and I am happily insane. I have no fears. No regrets. No second thoughts. I want her. I need her. She’s mine. “I’ll come around and help you out,” I tell her.
“Because you have such good manners,” she teases, a reminder of our little bathroom encounter on the first night we fucked, when I promised to make her come about a half-dozen ways, but only when I thought she was ready.
“You know it, sweetheart,” I say, exiting the car, and the moment I’m outside, a sense of being watched hits me, right along with a blast of cool wind. And yes, logically, it’s Beck’s people. It had better be Beck’s people, but I don’t like how it feels. I round the car and help Faith out, wrapping my arm around her shoulder and holding her close. Making it clear she’s mine. She’s under my protection.
We enter the restaurant and that feeling doesn’t fade, even as the rush of attention falls on us, as people who know Faith greet her. By the time we are at a table it becomes apparent that pretty much everyone in this city knows her, andher mother. Her dead mother, who is connected to my dead father. And that sensation of being watched is magnified with that realization.
Faith hands me a menu. “Now you know why I need a Sonoma survival kit. Everyone knows your business here.”
As if proving her point, another guest steps to Faith’s side and after I am introduced, I text Beck:Are your men following us?
His reply: Of course.Why?
Mine:Because I don’t see them but I feel them.
His:Huh, is his answer.
Mine:WTF does huh mean?
His:I guess lawyers are never wrong. And if you believe that, I have a million dollars I want to sell you for fifty bucks.
He’s obviously referencing my shirt, telling me he has eyes on me and us. But something still doesn’t feel right, and I discreetly scan, not just for his men, but for the source of my discomfort. An old lady to our right. A cluster of businessmen in deep conversation in the corner. A mid-fifties man by himself in the corner in jeans and a t-shirt. Another cluster of businesspeople. A college-age woman by herself, with headphones on.My gaze shifts to the hostess stand where a fit man in his mid-thirties is flirting with the woman showing people to their tables.