“I live in the boonies,” I reminded him. “No one comes out here. No one even knows there’s a here to come to. But the ones who do, I can hear them coming.”

“Don’t give a f**k. Just a guess, you don’t have a gun. Your lock is total shit and wouldn’t keep anyone out who knows rudimentary lock picking or has the power to land a solid kick to your door. You gotta have a new lock. I’ll check this one,” he jerked his head to my backdoor, “and you might get two. But when you’re home, you lock both.”

“This is the house I grew up in, Raiden. I’ve lived here all my life. I know that it’s—”

I shut up when his hand curled around the side of my neck and slid right up into my hair, pulling up so I went on my toes even as he bent into me, and I saw his face was not sleepy-ish handsome anymore. His eyes were hard and sharp and his jaw was tight.

“Lock. Your. Doors,” he commanded.

“Okay,” I whispered instantly, and he let me go.

I rolled back to my feet and hid my discomfiture at his extreme authoritarianism and easy ability to underline that by getting physical.

“Hanna,” he called.

“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled into my mug.

“Honey, give me your eyes.”

I lifted my eyes to him.

“I know the threat that lurks out there. What I want is to know that threat won’t threaten you. If shit can happen, it will. Odds are, no threat is gonna wander down that lane and stop at your house. But if it does, I want you to have five minutes to call 911 and get yourself safe so you don’t learn exactly what a threat is. I get thinkin’ about it for the second it takes every time you flip a lock is unpleasant. Livin’ a lifetime with the consequences of not doin’ it would be far f**kin’ worse.”

This made sense.

It was even sweet he was worried about me and wanted to protect me.

However.

“You could have explained that instead of grabbing me and going all drill sergeant,” I told him.

“Did I get your attention?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered then hesitantly added, “in a way I didn’t like very much.”

“Then next time, don’t backtalk,” he returned.

I blinked.

He took a sip of his coffee before he asked, “How long’s that cake take?”

I opened my mouth, closed it, and opened it again to reply, “About an hour.”

Raiden looked at the clock on my microwave then pulled my mug out of my hand, put it on the counter, tagged my hand and dragged me toward the doorway, muttering, “Then I gotta eat you now before the cake.”

My ni**les started tingling and I missed a step but Raiden didn’t notice.

He pulled me behind him up the stairs and to my bedroom, and before I could get my thoughts together, I was on my back in my bed. My panties and pajama shorts were gone, Raiden’s mouth was between my legs and I had no thoughts at all except how unbelievably good he was with his mouth.

He had me before cake.

And I had an orgasm before cake.

* * * * *

Early evening, the same day…

My cell rang and I grabbed it. The display said, “Raiden Calling”, and I was undecided about answering it.

I knew why this was.

I didn’t like how things turned so drastically in my kitchen that morning. I also didn’t like that Raiden didn’t give me the chance to address it or that I’d allowed him to take my mind off it. Not to mention the fact that after, there wasn’t enough time to go back to it, but more, I didn’t have the guts to do it.

But the bottom line was what Raiden did was uncool. I didn’t like to think of him as uncool. I really didn’t like to think of myself as a woman who would put up with uncool because she was hanging onto the man of her dreams. A man who gave her a scary indication that she shouldn’t live with (on top of other scary indications she was telling herself she could) that he wasn’t cool.

And I figured I needed time to sort through all this.

Nevertheless, being an idiot (though, this was Raiden Miller), I took the call and put my phone to my ear.

“Hey,” I greeted.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted back, and my insides melted.

There it was again. He did something dreamy and that something dreamy was simply calling me “baby”, and I forgot he could be not-so-dreamy.

“Where are you?” he went on.

“At home,” I answered.

“Things cool in town?” he asked.

“Surprisingly, or maybe not so much, seeing as she had two jobs to do and she was getting paid for both; Heather was totally on top of things. It’s going to stink, having to put together my shipments again, but I’m not behind.”

“Excellent,” he muttered then continued. “I’m just headin’ outta Denver. Be home in about forty. I’ll pick you up. We’ll go to Rache’s for dinner.”

“Uh… I already put a chicken in the oven.”

“Right, then be there in forty.”

I didn’t exactly ask him to dinner but it seemed he didn’t exactly care.

“Raid—” I began, but he interrupted me.

“See you soon.”

Then he was gone.

I stared at my phone.

Okay then, I’d talk to him at dinner, and I promised myself I would talk to him at dinner.

I dealt with things in the kitchen. After I did that, I opened a bottle of white wine, poured myself a glass, got my wool and headed out to the front porch.

I was swaying sideways on my swing, one leg bent, my foot in the seat. The outside of my leg was resting against the back of the swing. The other leg was down, tips of my toes swaying me. The makings of an afghan were in my lap and Carole King was coming soft through the windows of my living room when the Jeep pulled up.

I watched it, steeling myself to do what I promised, and I kept steeling myself as Raiden unfolded his body encased in tan cargo pants, tight hunter green tee and boots out of the Jeep. I continued steeling myself as he slowly walked up the steps, eyes on me and stopped at the post by the stairs.

“Hey,” I greeted.

“Hey,” he said back in a way that that one word glided across the space and wrapped warm and snug around me like one of my afghans.

I quit steeling.

But I did make to move, saying, “You want a—?”