I introduce myself to a young, handsome guy who is probably Tahoe’s PA. He greets me cordially and shows me down a hall with dozens of black-and-white photographs of oil rigs. The floors are dark wood and the furniture light in color; the combination simple and powerful.

“Miss Wylde is here, Mr. Roth,” his assistant says as he opens a massive brass door.

He keeps it wide open and there sits the dark prince of the playboys. The blond beast in his cave.

Tahoe Roth knows how to rock his suits. But every time he wears one, I’m struck by the ruggedness that still seeps through, like he’s more of an outdoors kind of guy —an adrenaline junkie and a nature lover, one who hit a gold mine when he struck oil and invested well. There’s smarts and pride behind those eyes. He owns the suit but it looks like his cage; the beast is prowling within.

His blue eyes flare when he sees me. His lips curve up in a smile as he stands. He moves like a lazy feline, stretching his muscles after a long nap.

I’m massively impressed as I head inside. “Nice cave,” I say appreciatively.

“Nice dress,” he drawls back softly.

I feel myself warm as he looks at me in a long cashmere dress that hugs my body and reaches my ankles, but for the most part I try to ignore his compliment—maybe he was teasing me—as I head to his desk and watch him take a seat behind it. My eye is drawn to a frame holding a picture of an older woman and man smiling at each other.

“Who are they?” I ask as I lift the frame and study the black-and-white photograph.

“My parents.”

“You must be close, to have their picture on your desk. Do you go visit them?”

I try to remember if I’ve ever heard him mention that he’s going home to see them, and I can’t remember an instance.

He leans back in his office chair and links his hands behind his head. “Only when I have to. They’re always on my case.” He smirks.

“Are you going for Christmas?” I ask.

“I don’t think so. Too much to do.”

I set the frame down on his desk. The quality of the photograph is incredible.

I feel like my pictures are even lamer now than I imagined. But although my budget was limited, my intentions were good. I slowly start peeling open the top of my manila envelope. “Okay so I’m trying to figure out what to give Trent. It’s not like I can give him a car, and he’s a vegan and sells produce so I can’t even give him a fruit basket. Plus he doesn’t wear ties. And he’s been away and I feel like he isn’t thinking about me—”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because his texts take forever.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not thinking of you.”

“Well, I thought this was a good reminder, and something easy and cheap to ship to him by Christmas day.” I pull out the eight pictures and clutch them to my chest. “So, you’re a connoisseur about this. I really want your opinion on these.”

If you’re a big-butt girl, nobody made you feel it was alright to have a big butt better than J. Lo. So when I booked this shoot, I was inspired by the pics she took for Ben Affleck, except I didn’t go that far. I’m wearing white boy shorts with a lacy behind, and my back is bare, with my dark hair loose and curly and reaching to the small of my back, and I’m mostly in profile except for one shot where I turned to ask something of the photographer and she snapped the camera.

I don’t like that one, I look unaware and…naked. Even with my boy shorts.

I don’t think I look that sexy, but I’ve spent all my Black Friday commissions on the shoot.

“Which one would a guy react to more strongly?” I ask him as I spread them out.

He scans them all with a quick sweep of his gaze, looking thoughtful. “Just one?”

“Yup.”

Frowning, he points toward all of them with a motion of his hand. “I’m supposed to like one better?”

“Yes! Don’t be obtuse. Oh, but not this one.” I push it aside. It’s the picture that included my face. I’m not photogenic. I don’t like pictures of my face.

Stroking his chin, he looks at me carefully. He picks up each photo and studies it for a long moment. His eyes have never looked so blue.

“Who took these?”

“Taylor Watts.”

His voice is oddly textured. “That a guy or a girl?”

I’m confused. Does it matter? “Girl.”

His face is unreadable, but almost imperceptibly, he relaxes his shoulders as he studies the pictures again. “This one.”

The one I’m most covered in?

“Are you certain?”

“Dead certain.” He taps it with his finger. “This one.”

“But it’s not the one in which I look sexiest, in my opinion.”

He just looks at me as if I’m stupid. “You look like sheet-clawing sex in all of them.”

His comment is so forthright and matter-of-fact, my knees nearly buckle.

“So what is he getting you?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” It isn’t until I speak that I realize my voice came out a little too wispy.

He nods at the pictures. “You’re giving him a gorgeous picture of yourself, what’s he giving you?”

“I told him chocolate.”

“Chocolate,” he says flatly. “Really.”

“Yup. Anything chocolate totally wins me over.”

I gather the pics and carefully slip them back into the envelope.

“He hasn’t answered my calls,” I whisper.