There are no balconies, no flowers, no green space. Every surrounding inch is paved, the patches of black asphalt forming a continual industrial quilt. Squealing children fight over one dirty basketball, playing in the streets around the parked cars. Broken bottles litter the space, the jagged pieces of glass crunching under my boots.

John would have played in these streets also, risked being cut by the glass and hit by passing vehicles. I could have lost him decades ago. I glance at the silver scars around his neck. I came very close to losing him. If he hadn’t survived his childhood, I would have remained alone, not knowing love, not knowing him.

I squeeze John’s hand, overcome with gratitude. He squeezes back, his gaze on the building, on his childhood home, his lips flat and his expression grim. He doesn’t have to say anything. I feel his dread as though it was my own, the feeling growing with each passing second.

“Are you ready?” I whisper, my words meant for his ears only.

“No,” John admits. He wraps one of his arms protectively around my waist and takes a deep ragged breath, his chest pushing against my back. “But this has to be done.” He surges forward, taking me with him.

Chapter Nine

Two and a half hours later, I trudge up the stairs. John follows me closely, his right palm resting on the small of my back. One of his men walks in front of us. We don’t speak, John having explained to me how voices carry, drawing unwanted attention. Small talk can be dangerous in this neighborhood and my billionaire isn’t taking any chances.

The stairwell is disgustingly dirty, smelling of urine and vomit. Liquor bottles are scattered on every landing. Taking the elevator isn’t an option. John claims it has been broken since he lived here.

I can’t believe this was once his home. This building is so different from Powers Corporation’s modern, immaculately clean head office. It hurts my heart to think of him spending his formative childhood years amidst the crime and grime.

The hired muscle opens the door to the roof and a blast of fresh air sweeps over the space. I hasten my pace, my calves burning, my lungs tight.

More men are positioned around the rooftop. Two lounge chairs are placed by a small table. A cooler holds bottles of water. A pizza box is set on the table.

I pace along the perimeter of the roof. Although the surface is as shabby as the rest of the building, the sky is a gorgeous shade of blue and the view is breathtaking.

“This is amazing.” I link my fingers with John’s and gaze out at the city.

“This place kept me sane,” he confesses. “I came here to escape everything else.”

I’ve seen some of his everything else, the tiny, damp apartment with the thin walls, the frighteningly dark hallways, the even more scary common areas. I heard the yelling and screaming, the rustling of rodents running between the drywall. I smelled the oil herb scent of marijuana, felt the grease on the hand railings. I faced this hardship today with John, buffered by his presence. He faced it for years alone, his childhood making him tough and strong.

I lean into the wind. “Up here, everything is possible.”

“Yes,” John agrees. We stand side by side, not speaking, the quiet comfortable.

My stomach growls and my face heats. “I hope that pizza box isn’t merely for show.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you.” My boss chuckles, leading me to the makeshift dining area. He extracts a bottle of water out of the cooler and splashes some of the liquid over his fingers. “Hold out your hands.”

The cool water flows over my fingers. “I see this is a fancy joint,” I tease, rubbing my palms together.

“Only the best for my girl.” John’s brown eyes glitter. I am his girl. Today has proven this. “Thank you.” His voice is soft, sincere.

“Thank me with pizza.” I flip the lid open, lightening the mood. The scent of tomato and oregano fills my nostrils, drawing another embarrassing rumble from my stomach.

“Do you need a plate?” John offers me a paper plate.

“For thin-crust pizza? Nah,” I scoff. “I’ll risk the anger of my fellow Torontonians and eat it New York style.” I fold the slice in two and nibble on a corner. “Oh my God.” I moan, the cheese melting in my mouth. “This is so good.”

“Give me a taste.” John bites into my slice.

“Hey, get your own slice.” I tug the pizza away from him.

“I want your slice.” He lunges forward and grabs my wrists. “And what I want, I get.” He forces me to feed him, his eyes sparkling with humor.

“You get what you want with my assistance.” I twist out of his grip. “Who has the slice now?” I crow, waving the crust under his nose. He pounces on me and we roll around on my lounge chair, taking bites out of the slice until there’s nothing left.

Our skirmish ends with me lying on top of John, his muscles under my curves, his palms resting on my denim-clad ass, both of us breathing heavily. I brace myself upward and gaze down at him. “You like to share meals.” It doesn’t matter what I’m eating for lunch, my boss wants half of it.

“My mom and I would share slices of pizza, ice cream cones, and any other treats we had.” John’s face softens. He doesn’t say it but I know, having seen his childhood apartment, they shared food because they couldn’t afford more.

“And now you share these treats with me.” I reach over and grab another slice of pizza.

“I only share them with you.” John meets my gaze.

He shares food with me because he loves me. A hard lump of emotion forms in my throat. “Here.” I shove the slice into his mouth, covering up my reaction.

My hungry man devours my clumsy offering and I happily feed him another slice. We eat and cuddle and talk, stretching out on the lounge chair, the blue sky above us, the sun’s rays warming our bodies.

A companionable silence falls upon us. John strokes my back, drifting his fingertips up and down, up and down. His gaze is unfocused, his brown eyes sad and soulful. He’s thinking of his past again.

I touch his face, capturing his attention. “Today took tremendous strength. Your mom would have been proud of you,” I assure my billionaire. “I’m proud of you.” I cover his lips with mine.

He opens to me, allowing me to control our kiss. I explore his mouth, tasting all of him. Our tongues touch and I retreat. He follows, pursuing me, and we play, finding joy in the middle of a stressful day, sanctuary in an urban war zone.

This is why I happily work fourteen-hour days. When I’m with John, a site visit becomes a date, a slice of pizza tastes better than any gourmet meal, and work becomes a delight.

I wiggle, brushing my denim-covered mons over the hard ridge in his jeans, rubbing my hips over his. John grips me tighter, growling softly into my mouth, the sound flowing down my throat, curling my fingers. We forget about everything, the painful past and the uncertain future, moments passing in a blur of bliss.

A throat clears. John tears his lips from mine, his muscles flexing under my body. We turn our heads toward the sound.

One of his men looms over us, his legs braced apart and his massive arms folded in front of his big barrel of a chest. His expression is deathly serious. “There’s been some gang activity in the area, sir.”

“Shit.” John pushes me to the side and leaps to his feet, his movements fast and fluid. “Call for the cars.” He draws me upward and pushes me toward the door, the cooler and patio furniture discarded. “We’re leaving.”

Another burly employee waits at the entrance to the stairwell. His right hand rests on his gun holster, his biceps bulging. I gulp. This is serious business.

John pivots me around to face him. “Follow Tiny,” he instructs. I blink up at him. The bodyguard’s name is Tiny? “I don’t care what you hear or see. You stay behind him. He’ll protect you.”