She wasn’t wrong, but she was stating something I didn’t exactly advertise. She worried her lower lip, staring at the ceiling like she hated herself for volunteering this piece of information. That she knew this. That she cared enough to look into my love life—or rather, lack of—in the first place.

“I heard Vicious scolding Jaime the other day. He told him to get Mel off of your back when it comes to dating because you’re going to die alone and single. He said you hate people.”

“He said that?” I brushed a finger over my lip, contemplating this. It wasn’t necessarily untrue. Though I was more indifferent than hostile.

“You do. You hate me.”

I don’t hate you. Not even close. Not even if I try really fucking hard. And I have.

She sighed, looking behind my shoulder, over the L.A. skyline. “Don’t go on the date, Trent. I know what happened yesterday. This woman…she was your Bane. She was your pastime. But dating is different than sex.”

“Seven at my place,” I repeated, jerking my chin toward the note on my desk. “Don’t be late.”

“What makes you think I’ll do it?”

“I’ll pay you well.”

“How well?”

“How well do you need to get paid for you to stop sniffing around my fucking business for your dad?” I laced my fingers together, propping my elbows on my desk. If she was taken aback by my candor, she didn’t let it show. Her forehead was still smooth of a frown, her full, Cupid’s lips still smeared in a smirk.

“Twelve thousand dollars a month,” she said, unblinking. I hadn’t expected a specific number. I hadn’t even expected her to take my question seriously.

I laughed. “That’s a lot of babysitting hours.”

“Well, I have a feeling you’ll need a lot of dates before you find someone who is willing to put up with your behavior,” she retorted nonchalantly.

I like you, you little diehard hustler.

I like how you act like you’re equal to me, even though you aren’t.

I like that you try to be a badass, when all you want to do is make my kid smile.

I like your bark, and your bite, and everything in-between when we fight.

“Seven,” I repeated for the third time, realizing that only Edie Van Der Zee managed to pull so many words out of my mouth—sometimes the exact same ones, and I made it a point to never repeat myself. “I’ll pay you fifty bucks an hour, which is far more than you’re getting paid for working here. I will add a generous bonus if you manage not to shove soda, or sugar, or fucking alcohol down Luna’s throat while I’m gone.”

“Don’t go,” she said again. I wanted to know why she was pushing it, but asking her was admitting I cared. And I shouldn’t have. I was in a fragile position at work with only twelve percent shares in the whole company. Jordan held forty-nine. My career, my life, my hard work could all go down in flames because of this, because of her, if I wasn’t careful.

“I’ll tell Luna she’ll see you tonight.” I ignored her.

She sighed.

I was a bastard, but I was saving both our asses.

IT WASN’T A GOOD IDEA.

The realization smacked me in the face when he opened the door to his penthouse in his ridiculously glitzy building that kissed Tobago Beach. One of the only skyscrapers in the city, and a new one at that, the building was two years old, max, and still had that fresh paint smell, with every fountain and plant looking like they were out of a catalog.

Trent wore a white V-neck shirt that clung to his bulging biceps, dark jeans, and outrageously expensive-looking sneakers. He looked like an Armani ad. So ridiculously proportioned, symmetrical, and tan. Soft lips and hard jaw and chin. His eyes scanned me briefly before he took a step back, letting me in. Rather than greeting me, he called, “Hey, Luna, look who’s here for a playdate.”

Playdate. I loathed that he’d said that, even though I had no reason to. It was just banter, right? I walked in, taking in his living space for the very first time: industrial shelves, a monstrous home theater system, one dark wall that looked like someone had thrown dark paint at it haphazardly, one exposed brick wall, dark wood floors, and pipe lamps, making the place look like a luxurious crack lab. Trent Rexroth might’ve been quiet, but his place definitely spoke volumes about who he was. Rough around the edges. Unconventional. Dangerous, even.

Luna padded barefoot from her room, already wearing a yellow pajama set. Her hair was braided sloppily—probably by her dad—and I loved that he tried, even as I made a mental note to redo it. I squatted down and smiled, poking her belly button.

“Hey, Germs.”

She grinned, rolling her eyes at me.

“Germs?” Trent asked from behind.