But beyond that, I’m a little tangled up in a woman I can’t seem to get out of my head. Which is clearly his point.

CHAPTER 22

SHOPPING TRIPS

PIERCE

I pull up in front of Rian’s duplex and park on the street since both cars take up the narrow driveway. Rian needs to price out house supplies. It’s the excuse she gave me for not having time to get together for lunch today. We have a date planned for later in the week, but I don’t feel like waiting, so here I am.

She and Marley took possession of the Paulsons’ two-story fixer-upper last week. Lawson got over it after he managed to snag another beach house—in better condition—a week later. It’ll give her an excuse to be on the beach more often. Which will mean more opportunities for quickies. Or not so quick quickies. And sleepovers, obviously.

My excuse for showing up unannounced is that there’s no way her piece-of-shit Buick can hold all the things she needs, so I’m here with my truck. To be nice. At least that’s what I’m going to tell her.

I’m aware I’ve already got it bad for this woman. My conversation with Lawson about priorities and business made that clear. Also, my motivation for getting out of law and making renovations and rentals my full potential future has shifted to include her.

I preemptively whacked off before I came over so I won’t be tempted to jump her the second I see her. I figure this is a good way to spend some time with her beyond the bedroom, which is where we end up a lot. Or any available surface, really.

“Please don’t tell me you forgot the code again,” Rian says as she opens the door, a saucy grin on her face. She’s wearing a pair of yoga shorts, a tank, and no bra. I know there’s no bra because her nipples are saluting me. Her expression changes to confusion as she takes me in. “Oh, hey.”

“Expecting someone else?” I raise a brow. And suddenly I wonder who might forget the code to their house. And why the hell would that person have it? Is she seeing someone else?

We haven’t framed this as anything other than two people enjoying each other’s company, often without clothing. I’m supposed to move back to Manhattan at the end of the summer, so despite what she’s said before, it’s entirely possible I’m not the only guy she’s seeing.

I should be glad that she’s not all clingy and needy. I should like the fact that she’s not all over my ass, texting me at all hours of the day and night. But I’m not. Right now, I’m irrationally angry.

I clench my fists, my good mood crushed by potential, unknown competition. At least until she responds. “Marley went to grab cream.”

“Why would she forget the code?” I’m suspicious.

She tilts her head to the side. “Because I change it at the beginning of every month.”

“Oh.” That’s smart. And possibly a little excessive.

“What’re you doing here?” Her eyes slide from my face down to my feet and back up. I’m wearing work boots, jeans, and a T-shirt.

I rub my chin, a little uncertain based on her reaction. Maybe this was a bad idea. She likes my pushy, but maybe I’m taking it too far. “You said you have to go house supply shopping.”

“I do.”

I motion to my truck. “I thought it might be easier if you didn’t have to jam things in the trunk of your car.”

“Oh. That’s really sweet, but I’ve never driven a truck that big.”

“I was planning to come with you, you know, to help with the heavy stuff. Besides, I have some things I need to pick up too.” I’m rambling. Why am I so nervous right now?

A tentative grin breaks across her face. “You don’t have anything else to do today?”

“Nah. I’m all yours.”

Her grin widens and she steps back. “Wanna come up for a few minutes? I need to change.”

“Sure.” I have to turn sideways in the narrow hallway to get past her. Even then my arm brushes against her breast and that sweet, tight nipple saying hello under her thin tank.

I lean against the wall, wait for her to lock the door and lead the way up the stairs. It also means I get to watch her ass. I may not be here for sex, but I can still appreciate the fine specimen of woman I’m going to spend my morning with.

She opens the door at the top of the stairs and ushers me in. It smells like her, warm and sweet, a combination of flowers and freshly baked cookies. I glance around the small kitchen, searching for her signature Tupperware. As I suspected, there’s a box of cookies on the counter.

“So this is our place. It’s not much but it’s home.” She tucks her thumbs in the waistband of her shorts and rocks back on her heels.

I survey the space, wondering how she must feel about me being here. She’s aware I have money, but she’s never made it a thing. Some mornings I’ll find cash tucked into my wallet that wasn’t there before. I only know because there’s change, and the bills are always folded, the amount always half of what dinner cost, regardless of whether she saw the bill.

It’s a modest apartment, the furniture older, but it’s well maintained and tidy. “I like it. It’s cozy.”

“Cozy’s a good word for it.” She runs her foot up the back of her bare calf, possibly scratching an itch. She’s too tempting, hair pulled up in a loose knot on top of her head. Nipples still obviously hard.

“Why don’t you get changed?” I really need her to be wearing something other than that tank. Otherwise my plan to spend time with her, doing something aside from making her come, will fail miserably. “The hardware store gets busy around eleven with contractors. We want to get there before then.”

She gives me a cautious, questioning smile. “Okay. I’ll be back in a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”

I have vague memories of living in an apartment as a little kid. Lawson was just a baby. We moved to a small house when my mother was pregnant with Amalie. It was nicer, in a better neighborhood, but still not big. At least not the kind of big I’ve grown accustomed to over the past twenty years. We never really wanted for anything, but we also didn’t have the kind of luxury I often take for granted now.

Rian and Marley clearly have to work hard for everything they have. I don’t really know much about her family history. Just that she has a twin and that she was close to her grandmother. I know nothing about her parents. She’s never mentioned them, not once.

Pictures of Rian and Marley together line the bookshelf. Some of them look recent, within the last year or two based on the lean angles of their faces and the curve of Rian’s hips. An older photo catches my eye, and I pick it up off the shelf, hoping for a glimpse of her past that might fill in some of the blank spaces.

They’re teenagers in the picture, maybe seventeen or eighteen at best.

They appear to be on a yacht, arms slung casually over each other’s shoulders, huge sunglasses covering their eyes. Rian’s skin is pink from too much sun, her bikini is white, but classy and pretty, the top a high halter. Marley isn’t quite so tasteful in her bright-yellow number with tiny little triangles of fabric held together with flimsy strips of crisscrossing fabric. Branding tells me their clothes are expensive, as are their sunglasses.

The picture not only captures the teenage versions of the girls, but also the beach backdrop. In the distance, the Mission Mansion rises majestically behind them, in much better condition than it is now.