Something so good it forced all of your attention to it.

Which meant I saw the first guy opening lids on food containers, the aroma of what was inside beating back the scent of flowers and filling the room.

“Barolo Grill,” Marcus said and my suddenly food-dazed gaze drifted to him. “Prosciutto and melon. Lobster salad. Truffle risotto. And bombolonis for dessert. With Dom, of course.”

With Dom, of course.

Dom Pérignon and lobster salad in my two-bedroom, not-much-to-write-home-about, uninspired-floorplan-like-gazillions-of-complexes-all-over-the-you-nited-States-of-America, galley kitchen, living-slash-dining-room, only-thing-good-about-it-was-the-master-bath apartment that I’d rented before I started to make a mint off stripping.

“Are you loco?” I asked.

His lips curled up. “No, I’m hungry.” He turned his attention to his men. “That’s good and that’s all.”

They started to move out but stopped when Marcus told them to do it.

His hand slid to the small of my back. “Daisy, this is my man, Brady, and my driver, Ronald.”

In turn, first the blond, then the sunglassed man nodded to me.

“Pleased to meet you,” Brady said.

“Same,” Ronald grunted.

With nothing more, they both took off.

I watched the door close behind them and looked back at Marcus.

“You have a driver?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“So he can drive me where I need to go.”

I felt my eyes get squinty again.

He put pressure on my back and guided me to my not-much-to-write-home-about round dinette (that was so going to go when I got my fabulous new pad—there, I’d have a proper, Southern woman’s dining room table, meaning big, gleaming, and covered in fine china, even if I didn’t have any friends to sit at it) where they’d laid out the opened food cartons, baker’s box, champagne, and flutes.

“I have a variety of concerns,” he explained as we went. “Time is always in short supply. I can’t use it wisely if I have to concentrate on driving. While Ronald drives, I can do things I couldn’t if I was.”

He stopped us by the table and I asked, “And you have a man?”

“I have several,” he answered.

I gestured to the door with my hand. “So what’s that one for?”

“Extra eyes.”

“Extra eyes for what?”

He held my gaze steady. “For being certain, should someone think to do something stupid that I wouldn’t very much like, they won’t do that because they either saw Brady and got smart or Brady saw them and stopped them.”

“So with these concerns of yours, you’re constantly in danger,” I guessed.

“No. Not many would be foolish enough to attempt to put me in a dangerous situation. What I am is cautious.”

I nodded. “You sure strike fear in the hearts of the strippers, sugar. The ones who don’t want to sleep with you, that is. But just sayin’, they might wanna get laid by you, but you scare them too.”

He grinned at me. “No offense, honey, but I’m not sure I consider strippers a threat.”

“None taken, darlin’, but gotta know. Do you consider anyone a threat?”

“No.”

I tilted my head. “Is that smart?”

“I didn’t work to earn my reputation by being stupid.”

Hmm.

“You tryin’ to scare me?” I asked.

“Absolutely not.”

I held my breath at his tone and let him hold my gaze.

He did this until he wasn’t feeling it anymore and he shared that by asking quietly, “Do you have plates?”

“I do. What I don’t got is the desire to eat fancy shit in my house when I’m in the middle of the best movie of all time.”

“We can eat in front of the television.”

I offered an alternate scenario. “You can also call your boys, get your stuff, and mosey on down the road.”

“I’m quite certain you know that’s not going to happen.”

I stared at him.

Then I sighed.

After that, I got plates.

I had fancy shit piled on one and a flute of champagne Marcus poured me in my hand while aiming my ass at my couch when I declared, “I’m not startin’ it up again. I’m good to re-watch certain parts after it’s done, like when Clairee is in that locker room. But I’m in the groove, even if it was interrupted, and I’m not re-startin’ my groove.”

“I’ll catch up,” Marcus told me, settling himself in my armchair, which was the only thing in my place I liked.

Supple leather. Big brass buttons studded all up the front and curve of the arms.

I bought it even though it didn’t match my inexpensive twill couch and it cost a whack when I wasn’t making a whack. I was schlepping drinks and wings at Hooters and wasn’t doing too badly because my hooters put the “Hoot” in Hooters, but it didn’t touch what I made stripping.

And I bought it because it looked like it belonged in a castle.

I wasn’t looking at my chair.

I was looking at him.

“Pardon?”

He set his champagne on my side table.

“I’ll catch up,” he told me.

“What do you mean, you’ll catch up?”

“How far into it are you?” he asked.

“I haven’t gotten to the wedding yet.”