“Are you taking me home?” As he promised to take me home last night.

“You are home.” John shakes his head as though I’m talking nonsense. “I canceled my meetings for the day. We’re going to a site so wear the usual, nothing designer, nothing flashy.”

I can’t visit a site smelling of sex and him. “I need a shower, sir.” I push myself upright, my body naked and sore. There’s no time to think about the mess he’s made of his schedule, the zillions of meetings I’ll have to rearrange, his confusing comment about me being home. “My clothes--”

“They’re in the dresser by the window.” John watches me as I walk toward the ensuite bathroom. “You have thirty minutes, Trella.”

I shower quickly, pull my hair back into a ponytail and don minimal makeup. All of my things have been placed in the bathroom, my hairbrush resting on the vanity’s black marble countertop, my bottle of vitamins hidden in the medicine cabinet.

When I emerge, John is no longer in the bedroom. The black velvet box is set on one of the nightstands, my earrings, the gift from John, having been removed while I slept. A pair of jeans, a navy blue T-shirt, and thick gray socks are folded on the foot of the neatly made bed, John having made my clothing decisions for me. My clunky work boots are placed on the hardwood floor.

I dress and rush downstairs with two minutes to spare. John stands by the double doors, a smaller baseball cap in one of his hands. His eyes light up as I descend the stairs. “This should fit you.” He tugs the cap on my head. The fabric smells of engine grease and dust.

“Whom did you steal this from?” I pull my ponytail through the back closure.

“I won it fair and square from Ian Smith in the third grade.” John grins, opening the door. We step into the bright sunlight.

This was his baseball cap, part of his childhood, and he wants me to wear it. I touch the warped bill, my chest warming with love.

Dave, John’s driver, is seated in a battered four-door sedan. He’s dressed as casually as we are. Another large man sits in the passenger seat. More sedans idle in front of and behind our vehicle. This isn’t abnormal for John. Billionaires are targets for desperate people and he doesn’t take any chances with his people’s safety, traveling in convoys whenever he visits high risk neighborhoods.

I slide into the backseat. John claims the spot beside me, his arm placed protectively around my shoulders, his thigh pressing against mine. The windows are rolled up, the glass bullet proof.

“What do you need, sir?” I extract my phone from my back pocket.

“I don’t need anything.” John takes the device from me and tosses it into the vehicle’s side compartment. “This isn’t a business outing for us and I’m not your boss today.”

“I thought everything is business for you.” I frown. “And if you’re not my boss today, why do you need me?”

“I’ll always need you,” he echoes the words in my dream. I gaze at him. Was it a dream? “And I certainly need you today.” John raps his knuckles on the glass dividing the front and back seats. The partition opens and a cup is transferred through the exposure. “Take this.” He presses the cup into my palm. “You’re a mess without your coffee.”

I sip the delectable java and moan with appreciation. “I do love you.” I’ve said it once. It won’t hurt our relationship if I say it again.

His lips lift into a small smile, his eyes gleaming. “I know.”

I grin. My boss is an arrogant bastard. “Why do you certainly need me today?” I pass the cup to John.

He places his mouth where mine had been and he drinks. “That young fool wasn’t the first person to approach me about developing the neighborhood I grew up in. I said no to all of the other offers, better offers, from more experienced partners.”

“Then why are you considering the partnership with Bass?” I ask, not expecting an answer. My boss doesn’t explain his decisions. He makes them and moves on.

“I’m developing the neighborhood now because it’s time.” John shifts in the seat, clearly uncomfortable with this conversation. “Because it should be done. Because you can help me.”

I’ve never heard him admit he needs help, have never seen him this vulnerable. “How can I help you?”

“You can help me deal.” John turns his head and gazes out the window. School-aged boys in black hoodies and low hanging pants stand on corners. Graffiti decorates every vertical surface. A plastic bag blows along the cracked sidewalk. An alarm sounds. “You can help me face this.” He waves his hand.

I can help him face his past. “Do you need me to be your assistant, to take on the tasks you’d rather not complete?” I have to be certain, to know exactly what he needs from me.

“You’re not my assistant today, Trella. I need your support, not more spreadsheets.” His smile holds sadness. “Stand by my side and manage my emotions as only you can. Distract me when it becomes too tough. Slap me when I’m being an irrational ass.”

“That’s a regular day for me, sir.” I force a joke

John’s eyes glimmer. “Exactly.”

He needs me as no one else has ever needed me. He also cares for me. Hearing the words is unnecessary. I feel our connection. “Is the neighborhood much different now?” I take the cup from him and finish the coffee, wishing to be wide awake when we arrive, when he requires my assistance.

“Nothing has changed in the neighborhood, nothing substantial.” John presses his lips together. “No one has invested here. No one cares.”

He cares. I hear the passion in his voice.

“People believe what they see, Trella,” John explains. “If they don’t see change, they won’t believe they can change. If people don’t invest in them, they won’t invest in themselves.”

This is why he constructs buildings, erecting giant symbols of change, of improvement. I slip my palm into his, silently showing my support, my understanding. John folds his fingers around mine, securing me to him. We sit, holding hands, our souls linked, my thoughts focused on the future, his thoughts revisiting the past.

His mood becomes more and more grim as the neighborhoods deteriorate. Tension radiates from him in dark and heavy waves. I can’t bear to see him like this.

I search for a distraction. “Was I supposed to wear panties?” I wiggle, brushing my thigh against his. “You didn’t set out a pair for me.”

John turns his head toward me and blinks. “Are you bare under your jeans?”

“I am.” I nod. “And the zipper is rubbing against an interesting spot.” I squirm.

“I didn’t set out a bra either.” John runs one of his palms over my back. He should be feeling smooth cotton. “Trella,” he groans. “What are you doing to me?” His mind isn’t on his challenging childhood now.

I tilt my head back and meet his gaze. “I’m managing you, sir.” I laugh.

John chuckles. “Actions have consequences.” He tugs on the bill of my baseball cap. “Remember that, love.”

Love. My smile wavers. Does he love me? Before I can ask, the vehicle slows and all of the mirth fades from John’s face.

“You won’t leave my side today,” he commands. “If the situation becomes unsafe, we’re leaving, no questions asked.”

“I understand.” I understand everything. He’s showing me a slice of himself, a part he doesn’t share with many people, a rare vulnerability. He needs me by his side, to help him through this.

John exits the sedan first, scanning our surroundings, and he reaches for me. His men are positioned casually around us, not so close as to draw attention but near enough to secure the area.

The building looming in front of us is old and depressingly institutional, the address listed on John’s comprehensive online biography. Two of the giant gray numbers are missing, their outlines permanently etched in the red brick. Windows are cracked, covered with silver duct tape or clear fixative.