“I know what your first favorite past time is,” she said, trailing her finger along his thigh.

“We could combine the two. You’d be nice to play strip poker with,” he added.

“I’d beat you,” she said instantly. She knew she would. Confidence coursed through her.

“I’d have to say in that game with you, I’m winning either way.”

“You’re an interesting man, Clay Nichols,” she said, smiling at him. But smiling inside too. She was enjoying herself so much, and so much more than she had in ages. There was something about him that simply worked extraordinarily well with her. They had chemistry in the bedroom in spades, but they could talk too, and that was almost a magical thing. Rare too. You didn’t often come across someone who captivated your mind and your body.

“Am I?”

“You are, and I want to know more about you. So you have a little brother. Where does he live?”

“Ah, the topic you were saving for dinner. Brent is in Vegas too.”

“Wait. Let me guess.” She flung her hand over her forehead, mimicking a fortune teller. “He’s a magician. He has an act with tigers and disappearing roses.”

He shook his head. “Nope. But you’re close in that he’s on stage. He’s a comedian.”

She shook her head, bemused with his family story. “Your family does all the things you never really think anyone does.”

“And we have Thanksgiving together every year too. Mom makes a turkey, dad carves it, and Brent bakes a pumpkin pie.”

“Oh stop. That’s far too normal to be believed. Aren’t you supposed to have issues? Like everyone these days? Hate your dad or mom? Or something,” she said because her ex, Dillon, certainly was like that. Most of the men she’d known were prickly toward their families and, come to think of it, that might be yet another reason why they were exes. Shouldn’t a man have a little respect for his mom and dad? There was no badge of honor given for hating your parents simply because that’s what most modern men and women did.

“What can I say?” He held out his hands in mock surrender. “I aim to defy modern stereotypes. I might have grown up around gamblers, tits and ass, but there was no drama. No dysfunction.”

“Though it gave you an appreciation for tits and ass, I presume?”

“Huge appreciation for them,” he said, then paused. “Why? Were you thinking I had some horrible childhood and that’s why I like to talk dirty to you?”

She pressed her finger against her lips, and peered at the ceiling as if in deep thought. “Actually, I kind of figured you were the same as me and that you just liked it that way.”

“Damn straight. I’m not playing out some childhood trauma in the way I like to have sex,” he said in that smooth, confident voice she loved.

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

“You’d look sexy smoking a cigar. But then you’d look sexy in just about anything. Which is sort of my point. I like what I like and I like it all with you.”

A shiver raced through her blood at his words. She brushed her lips against his jaw. “I feel the same about you,” she whispered, and he took her in his arms quickly. A warm, strong embrace. He didn’t say anything, just breathed her in, and she did the same. The moment felt suspended almost, existing in its own blissful bubble of possibility. Her mind toyed with all the potential of the two of them, of the ways this moment could turn into many more. She liked being with him so much, maybe too much.

“What’s your story?” He asked after she slipped slowly from his hold.

“Do I like what I like? Or do I appreciate tits and ass, you mean?”

“That’s a valid question. But I suppose I was thinking more along the lines of whether you bake pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving.”

“I’m more of a pecan pie kind of gal. And yes, I have one of those – shockers – normal families too. Though not nearly as exciting as yours. Mom’s in real estate, dad’s an orthodontist, and they live in Sherman Oaks, California, where I grew up. My best friend is my sister. Well, my other best friend is my hair stylist, Gayle, but then who else does a woman tell all her secrets to but her hairdresser,” she said playfully.

“I hate secrets,” Clay said in a harsh tone, with narrowed eyes. His words jolted her. Like she’d been shocked by the unexpected ire in his statement. Julia’s gaze drifted down; his fists were clenched.

“What do you mean?”

“Secrets eat away at people,” he said, practically spitting out the words on the red counter.

She’d touched some kind of nerve.

Okay, fine. She got it – secrets could suck. But she had a big one, and she didn’t need or want to feel like she was doing something wrong by keeping it. She had no choice. She was boxed in by her awful ex and what he’d done to her, and now by what Charlie was doing to her as he made her pay for Dillon’s crimes – crimes he blamed on her. Some days she felt like she’d never get out from under it all. Not from Charlie and not from the need for secrets and lies.

She grabbed the steering wheel of the conversation and swerved out of the way of the topic. “I have a secret I can tell you. Mine is that I’m wearing no underwear.”

That earned her a wicked grin. He laid a strong hand on her knee. “Hardly a secret. I knew that. Tell me things that are secret now, but won’t be in a few seconds. Tell me what you love most in the world,” he said.

“Cupcakes, my sister, and freedom,” she said, and truer words were never spoken.

“And what do you hate most?”

That was easy. Too easy. “Owing things,” she said, and because she didn’t want to discuss it more she turned the questions back on him. “What do you love most in the world?”

“Scotch. Ties. Movies. Family.”

“And what do you hate most?”

“Lies. I hate lies.”

“But you’re a lawyer,” she said, furrowing her brow.

“So that means I can’t dislike lies?”

“Don’t you have to lie for a living?”

“No. I don’t have to lie,” he said, and his voice was strong and passionate. “I fight. I fight for what my clients want. There’s a difference.”

“What else do you fight for?”

“For the things I want.”

“Do you want me?” She asked, turning the conversation down another street yet again.

“I want you so fucking much, Julia,” he said, and he wasn’t giving an order or command this time. There was something almost naked in his voice. A vulnerability that he let show now and then. He pulled her close, buzzed his lips along her jaw, then up to her ear. “I meant it when I said I couldn’t stop thinking about you all week. I wanted to fuck you and I wanted to talk you. I want to spend more time with you. I want to get to know you more and more. You fascinate me,” he said, kissing her neck, his sandpaper stubble rough against her skin, the feel of him melting her inside.

His words too sent a shudder through her, filling her with that delicious feeling of falling in like with someone. Of flutters and wishes and the hope for more – more time, more moments. But saying she wanted more was hard for her. Letting someone in was even tougher because she knew where it might lead to – to her being owned in yet another way she’d never see coming. So she shifted back to the pure truth of the physical.

“Now you’re turning me on again,” she whispered.

“It’s a good thing you’re not wearing any panties.”

“Oh yeah. Why’s that?”

He pulled away, glanced around the restaurant as if he were sweeping it for spies, then reached into his back pocket. There were a few other diners at nearby tables, as well as the bartender and the waiter. He took his hand from his pocket, his fingers curled around in a fist, like he was hiding something.

“Are you a good actress?” he asked.

“Sure. Why?”

“Because I’m going to test you right now.” He slid his hand under her skirt; her legs were hidden under the edge of the counter. Then she felt it – a buzzing against her bare thigh.