Neither of us speaks for a hot minute. We just stare each other down as if we’re seeing one another for the very first time. Or for the last time. Before I can find good sense enough to clear my throat and question him on his presence, he speaks up.

“Exactly like me.”

I blink half a dozen times, causing the hardened ink on my lashes to gently bite my eyelids. “Excuse me?”

“Anyone like me could just walk in here. And you don’t need that. You don’t want that.”

What the hell do you know about what I want? I silently ask him. He smiles as if he’s stolen the question from my lips.

“You’re right,” I say, not meaning a word of it. It still doesn’t dissuade his grin. “What can I do for you, Ransom?”

Relaxing, he folds a leg over the other so that his knee juts out to the side. His fingers rest atop his knee and begin to tap rhythmically. “Your POA proposal.”

“What about it?” I set my phone down and give him my undivided attention. Business. This is about business. I can do that.

“We’re doing SNL tomorrow night.”

“I’m aware of that.” Obviously, that had been in the works for weeks, at the hands of his agent.

“I want you there.”

I pause, snapping my lips shut on my initial response. Why does he want me there? Why would he need me there? The band is performing—that’s it. And from what I’ve seen, they make a cameo in a short skit alongside featured host, Rebel Wilson. Essentially, a publicist wouldn’t be needed.

“I’d feel better if you were there,” he shrugs, reading the questions escaping my expression.

“Why?” Why me? Why now?

I don’t say it, but I know he can see it. I know he can see me.

“Why not?” Because I want you.

Suffocating silence lies between us when my cell rings, and I scramble to answer, assuming it’s Tamara. I don’t even think I replied to her text earlier.

“Bunny, I’ve only got a quick minute.” I can hear the urgency in Tucker’s voice, and it instantly sobers me.

“What is it, Tuck?” Instinctively, my eyes drift over to Ransom and I cringe. I don’t know why I do it; I don’t know why there’s the distinct knot of guilt caught in my throat, but there is.

“I’ve got to work late tonight. Something’s come up.” Translation: One of my patients is in the midst of a crisis, and they need me more than you do. “I know you have that thing tonight. Will it be all right if I pass?”

Without rhyme or reason, my gaze goes to Ransom, who lifts a curious brow in response. “Sure, honey. Not a problem.”

“I’m sorry. I can try to make it later. It’s just . . .”

“It’s fine, Tuck. I’ll be fine. I’ll make an appearance and head home. No need to come, I promise. Go on . . . go be amazing.” There’s a smile in my voice, but it doesn’t touch my face.

“Ok, babe.” There’s a rustle on the other end as if he’s on the move. “You know I love you, Heidi.”

I suck in a breath, drawing in those sweet, tender words and letting them fill the space he left empty early this morning. The space that’s remained empty since he pressed me face-first into the wall almost a week ago.

“I know,” I respond on an exhale. “I love you too.”

When I look up, Ransom is regarding me with unmasked wonder.

“What?” I ask, almost annoyed with his candor.

“What can’t he make?”

The papers on my desk serve as the perfect distraction, and I focus on shuffling them into neat piles. “My firm is handling the launch party for Lujo Tequila. I have to actually head over there soon to ensure everything is set for tonight before getting ready.”

“Really?” I can’t tell if his interest is feigned or genuine, but he suddenly sits up straighter. “What time does it start?”

“Eight P.M. Why?”

Ransom climbs to his feet just as lithely as he sat, and I am hurled back into the memory of his body sliding out and off of mine. I shiver, the need to feel that heat again fresh on my mind.

“Because I’ll be in front of your place at seven thirty.”

“What? Ransom, no. I don’t need you to do that.” I’m already moving around my desk to stop him from leaving with that crazy notion on his brain. He turns just as he hits the doorframe.

“I know. But I’m doing it anyway. So be ready.”

He doesn’t explain himself. He doesn’t give me a chance to refute his offer—no—his demands. He just turns around and walks away, taking my good sense with him.

I finish the afternoon in a robotic, yet efficient, haze, which isn’t far off from the norm for me. When I stop by the venue to ensure all is set for tonight, only Tamara notices that I’m less than present. But even she’s too preoccupied to give a damn.

By the time I head across town to our condo, I’m seized with nerves. I don’t know why. I could easily text Ransom right now and tell him to forget it, that his presence isn’t welcome. That it is highly inappropriate for us to carry on so casually. But as I step through the threshold of the front door to see that Tucker isn’t home, I release a sigh of shame-laden relief.

I dress in a simple black dress with a modest neckline and a back dip so low that my entire spine is on display. It’s the mullet of dresses—business in the front, and all party in the back. I can get away with it at a function like this, but just barely. Still, I clip my ice blonde hair up to show off the dramatic plunge. If there’s one advantage of having fun-size breasts, it’s definitely being able to rock a daring outfit sans bra.

I’m anxious as I make my way downstairs. Part of me hopes he was just bluffing. A much larger, more physical part of me hopes that the black limo at the curb in front of my building contains one Ransom Reed.

It doesn’t.

Instead, the driver opens the door to usher in Mrs. Worthington from downstairs, who is dressed to the nines in a cacophony of silk and sequins.

“Good evening, Mrs. Worthington,” I manage to smile through my disappointment. The much older woman nods at me fondly, taking in my equally formal attire.

“Oh, good evening, dear. I see you have a steamy rendezvous tonight as well.” She gives me a conspiratorial wink before dipping into the backseat of the dark car, leaving me surprised and a little envious. I snap my mouth closed and turn to the doorman of my building to ask for a cab when the seductive purr of a V8 engine captures my attention, just as a black metallic Maserati GranTurismo pulls up to the curb. Without even seeing his face through the dark tinted windows or smelling his scent of spiced smoke and earth, I know Ransom is behind the wheel. No one else could drive a car this sexy and pull it off so flawlessly.

With almost feline elegance, he unfolds himself from the car and comes around to where I stand on the sidewalk. He’s dressed in all black—tailored black slacks, black dress shirt with the top few buttons undone, and clean, black boots. And although this is the most dressed up I’ve ever seen him, he wears the tighter clothing just like he does his worn jeans and tees—like they were made to grace his body.

“You’re here.” What was supposed to be skeptical is masked by the breathy sound of my voice. Dammit.

“I said I would be.”

He doesn’t greet me or tell me I look beautiful. He hardly even looks at me. He just opens the passenger side door and steps aside to let me in. Reluctantly, I slide onto the crimson leather seat, taking extra care with the hem of my dress. He doesn’t want to look, so God forbid I give him something to look at.

“Nice car,” I murmur as he filters into bumper-to-bumper traffic.

“Thanks. It was a birthday present to myself,” he replies stiffly, keeping his eyes on the road. Somehow, he seems to find every open spot and zips his way between lanes. I’m pretty sure the sweet ride has something to do with it too. Respect must be paid when a Maserati is on the road.

“Well, you sure know how to spoil yourself.” It’s a lame comment. Lame. One out of nervousness just to fill the empty space. Music plays quietly in the background, and I take it upon myself to turn it up, breaking cardinal rule number 1: Never touch a man’s stereo. Nev-er.