It was then the doors to the elevator glided open. My eyes flew open and our heads twisted to watch Matt walk out, carrying a case of diet soda.

Thank you God.

I instantly tried to pull out of Luke’s arms but he didn’t let me move an inch even though his hand went out of my hair. It only did this to wrap around my back to keep me where I was.

“Hey, sorry,” Matt said, grinning like an idiot, not looking sorry at all and even with the idiot grin I wanted to kiss him for interrupting. My vibrators were going to divorce me if I kept going like this.

I looked at Luke and saw his lips were pressed together and he didn’t seem happy. “Next time, buzz up,” Luke’s voice proved my theory correct and made me slightly concerned about his use of the words “next time”.

Matt put the case of soda on the counter. “Will do,” he replied cheerily, ignoring Luke’s pissed off voice. “I’ll just be going.”

“Good idea,” Luke said.

Matt lifted a hand in a small wave as he walked across the room and then he hit the elevator button. I pulled again at Luke’s arms. He looked down at me, still with an unhappy expression, but let me go.

I moved straight to the case of diet pop.

“Later!” I called to Matt as the doors started to close. He lifted his hand to his forehead, gave me a wink and a salute right before we lost sight of him.

Burying the latest episode with Luke deep, deeper, deepest, I ignored it even happened and got myself a can of pop, a glass, some ice from the fridge and poured it. All the while I was doing this, Luke watched me moving around his kitchen, his back to the counter, h*ps against it, arms crossed. I knew this not only because I saw him looking at me but I also felt it.

“You want a soda?” I asked, pretending not to be affected by him watching me.

“No,” he answered.

“I’m going to get dressed,” I told him.

Luke didn’t respond.

I took my glass of pop, grabbed my clothes and moved toward the bathroom, sensing escape and planning my grocery store dash, direct to the cookie dough.

“Ava,” Luke called.

I stopped and turned to him. “Yeah?”

“I’ve decided your payment.”

My body froze and a thrill ran up my back. It was a good thrill, maybe even a great thrill, definitely a vibrator-cheating thrill and I stared at him.

“What is it?”

“Be here tonight when you’re done with your friends.”

I did not think so.

“Luke, just tell me.”

“Be here tonight.”

I would have put my hands on my h*ps if my arms weren’t full. Instead, I hitched a hip and put a foot out in Bitch Attitude Stance.

“Tell me.”

“Tonight.”

I glared at him. He watched me.

Then he turned away, threw another chunk of melon into his mouth and started to make coffee.

I made the instant decision that there was no way I was coming to his loft that night.

Fuck that.

And he couldn’t make me pay him anything unless he sent me a goddamned invoice. That, I would gladly pay.

On that thought, I stomped to the bathroom, sucking back some soda and I kicked the door shut with my foot.

Chapter Five

I Need Cookies

I was standing in the cookie section at King Soopers searching for my motivational, healthy living mojo when my phone rang. I dug through my bag, pulled it out and saw “Riley Calling”. I flipped it open and put it to my ear.

“Thank God it’s you, Chips Ahoy or Nutter Butter?” I asked instead of saying hello.

Riley laughed in my ear. “Neither, where are you?”

“King Soopers and I had a shit night. I need processed cookie-type food.”

“No shit night is worth processed cookie-type food,” Riley told me.

He was so wrong.

“Last night was, believe me,” I said.

“Ava, step away from the cookies.”

“No.”

“Do it.”

“No.”

“Step away from the cookies and I’ll bring lunch to your place, one thirty. Deal?”

Holy crap.

What was that all about?

I’d never seen Riley outside of the gym. Well, not exactly, he’d been to all my birthday parties for five years and my annual Thank God It’s Summer Party that I held on Memorial Day every year, maybe we should just say I’d never seen Riley at my house alone.

“Deal,” I said, feeling kind of weird.

“Later.”

Disconnect.

Well, that’s interesting, Good Ava said.

Luke’s cuter, he has better lips and he has good chest hair. Not to mention his eyes are total YUM when they turn ink, Bad Ava said and then peered across my neck at Good Ava. Did you see his eyes?

I saw ‘em. They were YUM! Good Ava agreed.

“Shut up,” I whispered and a lady standing beside me gave me a weird look. I shot her an embarrassed smile, went directly to the produce section and bought enough grapes, oranges and plums to unconstipate the French Foreign Legion.

At Luke’s I had dressed quickly, came out of the bathroom, grabbed my purse and keys and gave him a “Later”. The whole time he sat on a barstool, holding his coffee cup, watching me and not saying a word. I had managed to escape without him giving me keys or his remote which I figured worked in my favor.

I went directly to King Soopers and was saved by Riley.

After I left King Soopers and was heading home, I decided I would call Shirleen at Nightingale Investigations and set up an account. I figured she would take my information and invoice me. It was a business and they had to keep their men in lofts and Porsches. They weren’t going to turn down my trade.

What I didn’t allow myself to think about was anything that had anything to do with Luke; his eyes turning to ink; the scar across his belly; his chest hair; how good a night’s rest I had while lying beside him (even handcuffed); or what he might taste like.

And I definitely didn’t think about getting shot at by AK-47s.

I let myself into my house and to keep my mind busy I cleaned it. Then I took a shower and tamed my hair. I swiped on a hint of makeup (Riley was coming over, after all) and because it was warm I put on a black Foo Fighters baby doll tee, another pair of faded (but not quite as faded as yesterday) Levi’s and a shitload of my silver to buoy my spirits. After I’d done that I had about a half an hour before Riley got there, so I got to work on one of my accounts. A deadline was drawing near and with all the Sissy business, I was procrastinating. I had to get some work done or I’d be f**ked.