“Yeah, but your people aren’t my people. My guys will look places yours don’t even know about.”

Illegal places. “I don’t want to go there.” He trusted Jase, but he didn’t want Harlow brought to anyone else’s attention. “But thank you.”

“Not a problem. Just let me know if you change your mind.”

“Will do.” Pipes whined, signaling the shower had just been shut off. He had to tamp down his excitement. “I know Jessie Kay is on her way over to help Brook Lynn with her sandwiches, but have your girl call her and tell her to cage the rage. No name-calling. No insulting.” Seeing the way Jessie Kay and Sunny had gone for Harlow’s throat yesterday had sharpened his shiny new protective instincts into razors. “If Jessie Kay can’t manage civil, she needs to stay away from Harlow.”

“You’re putting me in the middle of a shit storm, my friend. You know that, right?”

“I do, and I’m sorry.” He hated asking Jase for anything. “I’m also grateful.”

“Hey, I wasn’t complaining,” Jase said with a grin. “I like make-up sex.”

“Then I guess you owe me.”

Jase snorted and strode from the room. Right on time. The faint pitter-patter of bare feet echoed from the wood floor. Harlow rounded the corner—and Beck reacted as if he’d just been kicked in the gut.

Her fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt, a nervous gesture. For what he had planned, she should be very nervous.

Wet hair clung to her neck and arms. Her white T-shirt was damp in spots, revealing the outline of her lacy crimson bra. He’d had to guess her size: small, but perfect.

He couldn’t wait to get the little plums in his hands.

The shorts she wore had been cut from his most comfortable sweatpants, revealing mile-long legs that would wrap around his waist and hold on tight till the end of the ride.

“Have a seat,” he said, motioning to the couch.

She shifted from one foot to the other, remaining in place. “Beck, I don’t want to talk about my past.”

“Then you won’t.” Again he motioned to the couch. “Sit. Please.”

Frowning, she walked over and eased down. He settled in the chair across from her, wanting distance, hell, needing it to clear his head. But it didn’t help. Her scent had changed subtly, the strawberries now dusted with sandalwood, saturating the air, filling his nose, going straight to his head—and his groin.

“Whether you want to or not, we are going to talk about your future. You, Harlow Glass, work for WOH Industries, effective immediately.” Yet another change. Too much, too fast, like everything else about her, and enough to make his head spin. But there was no better way to take care of her and keep her close.

“Wait.” She shook her head, as if she were certain she’d misheard him. “Come again.”

“Your talent is incomparable. Which is why—”

“But you’ve only seen my ruined murals. How do you know my talent is incomparable?”

“I can’t believe you have to ask. While your superpower is painting, mine is X-ray vision. I saw beneath the splatters to the bones of the picture.” And, okay, there were photos of her amazing work in the box. “May I continue now?”

She nibbled on her bottom lip and nodded.

“You are going to design the sets and characters West uses in his games. You’ll do it on paper, which he will then scan digitally. An RV will be delivered to my front yard later today, and you will live in it. A signing bonus for your services, one I would give to anyone I hired.” Probably. “We don’t always work normal hours.”

“But...but...you haven’t even seen my résumé. Which, to be fair, I submitted to one of your assistants when you first opened up shop here.”

“The assistant stayed long enough to hire a receptionist from Strawberry Valley, not an artist. And I don’t need to see your résumé. Your work speaks for itself.” When she continued to gape at him, he decided to forge ahead. “Say thank you, but don’t make the mistake of thinking your job will be easy. You will be at our beck and call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. If we want you to draw a character sketch at two in the morning, you will.”

“Do you even need an artist on staff?”

“Yes. West works way too much, and constantly recruiting freelancers takes a ton of time. This will take a major burden off his shoulders.”

“So why haven’t you hired an artist before today?”

Rather than admitting the truth—new hires usually gave him hives—he said, “Maybe I hadn’t found the right slave. I mean, the right person yet.”

Her lips twitched at the corners, as he’d intended.

Then the slam of a car door registered, and she stiffened. “Expecting company?”

“Just Jessie Kay.”

The color drained from Harlow’s cheeks. “She’s going to be so mad I’m here. I should probably sneak out the back before you’re forced to break up a catfight.”

“First, I would never break up a catfight. I would watch it. Second, don’t be silly. This isn’t her house, and you’re my guest. She’ll deal.”

The awe she leveled at him made him uncomfortable—and hot as hell.

Jessie Kay stopped to glare at Harlow, then at Beck. Then she beat feet to the kitchen, calling, “Brook Lynn. Let’s get to cookin’ before I put a brick through a window.”