“I’m comin’ to you,” he said.

Her tone was sharp when she started, “Sebring—”

“He won’t see me,” he assured.

“Are you positive you can pull that off?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

Again, she didn’t reply for another several moments before, “I’ll unlock the doors to the pool. Do you think they know I’m not around and that’s why I have someone on me?”

“No clue, babe. But we’ll keep better track of shit from here on out.”

And they sure as fuck would.

“Right,” she replied.

“I got some things to do at the office. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way. Also still got my man on you, he’s watchin’ your watcher. That situation changes, I’ll let you know.”

“Okay, Nick.”

“Later, Liv.”

“’Bye, sweetheart.”

They hung up. He did the things he had to do, texted her, left the office and parked on the street three blocks from her place. He approached from the alley, went in through her back gate (doing it making a mental note to buy a lock for it) and entered the house through a side French door by her pool.

She was standing at the end of the hall, watching him approach.

He saw her standing there but mostly he was taking in her place as he approached.

He got within four feet—and it took him a while to do that—when he said, “Tell Jeeves I’ll take my whisky now.”

He watched her body twitch.

And he stopped dead when she busted out laughing.

Fucking hell.

Fucking.

Hell.

He’d never seen her laugh.

It changed her. Entirely.

Gone was his cool, poised, exquisite princess.

Her laughter was soft, even delicate, like her voice, but it transformed her face, the line of her body.

She no longer was the cool-as-shit, hot-as-fuck piece of ass only a half percent of the male population would have the balls to approach because, even if the promise of her screamed it was worth the risk, every vibe she gave said you’d crash and burn.

In her place was the sweet-as-hell, hot-as-fuck piece of ass it wouldn’t matter if you crashed and burned because she’d lay that hurt on you like velvet and you’d end up with her number anyway because you were invited to hang with her posse to watch the game.

He still had that Livvie when he made it to her.

He pulled that Livvie into his arms.

She lifted her hands to either side of his neck, curled her fingers to hold on lightly, and still quietly laughing, she tipped her head back and caught his gaze.

“Hey,” she greeted, green eyes light and dancing.

Fuck, he was so fucking falling in love with her.

“Hey,” he grunted, feeling warmth and contentment, unease, frustration and impatience.

And he was feeling these last because he was pissed he had to sneak into her house from the alley. Pissed he had to have a man on her. Pissed he had to worry if she didn’t text back right away. And pissed he couldn’t put her ass in his car and take her out to dinner so he could show the whole fucking world the beauty he’d earned.

Her laughter faded, but this time he had himself to blame for the brevity of her happiness.

“Sebring, what is it?” she asked, studying him closely.

“We’re goin’ to Vegas.”

She blinked at him.

“Sorry?”

“Next weekend,” he stated. “Do what you gotta do. Sort that shit. But we’re flying to Vegas Friday night, stayin’ until Sunday. You and me somewhere we can fuck like we fuck but do it bein’ able to leave our bed, go out and eat and gamble and drink and whatever the fuck we wanna do and it doesn’t matter who sees ’cause no one is watching.”

She melted into him, not hiding even a little bit she liked that idea.

“Next weekend. Vegas,” she agreed.

“Next weekend. Vegas,” he confirmed.

Her happiness came back, not through laughter, through a sweet smile.

“I’ll sort my shit,” she promised.

“I’ll sort mine,” he did the same.

“Okay, that’s a plan. Now, I haven’t been home in a while so we have a choice for dinner. Heated up canned clam chowder or Chinese delivery.”

“Is that a choice?” he asked.

“Right,” she murmured. “Chinese delivery.”

He let her go with one arm, pulling her around to his side and walking her into the gigantic space that was the front of her house. “You got menus?”

“Yes,” she answered, moving from his hold to head to a drawer.

He stopped at her bar. “I get it if you feel like Chinese. But don’t you have a personal hibachi chef, you know, after he slides one of these motherfucking huge marble slabs off to get to his grill?”

She threw him a look, her eyes still light, her lips tipped up.

“Or maybe you can call your pizza maker to duty. Your wood fired oven outside or what?” he pushed.

She turned away from her drawer and came to him, tossing a menu across the vast expanse of thick, gorgeous, expensive-as-all-hell countertop.

“You should count yourself lucky you’re handsome, tall, built and a very good sex partner or your smartassedness would be problematically aggravating.”

“Sex partner?” he teased.

“Look at the menu, Sebring.”

“Smartassedness?” he kept teasing.

“Menu,” she ordered.

“Problematically?”

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

He started grinning.