Fire Inside

Chapter Six Getting to Me

Six days later…

I stood at the end of my bed staring at my packed suitcase that was ready for my trip to Vail. Except for closing it, I was all packed.

Sorted.

I looked to the clock on the nightstand.

I had thirty minutes until the limo arrived.

My parents were up in the air, fast approaching Denver International Airport. Soon, we’d be driving up to Vail, with Mom chattering at the same time fretting about getting to a liquor store.

And me…

Me…

I was screwed.

Suffice it to say that in the last six days, I had not formed a plan.

No, I had not.

Not even close.

Last Sunday, waking up at Hotel Monaco tangled with my fix, I partook of the high immediately. Or, more accurately, Hop woke up in the mood and wasted no time bringing the mood over me.

First thing in the morning sex led to cuddling, ordering room service, having a shower, watching TV, having more sex, ordering more room service, dozing, watching more TV, ordering more room service, having more sex and then falling asleep.

All with Hop.

I didn’t even protest.

I just went with the flow and essentially gorged myself on the drug that was Hop.

It was fantastic.

Monday morning we woke early, checked out, and Hop drove my car and me home. He kissed me at my front door and walked out, and I watched through the plantation shutters as he swung into the passenger seat of a black van driven by High.

They drove away.

I didn’t allow myself to think of anything but getting to work and taking advantage of being ahead of the game for once.

Mid-afternoon, Hop called me.

“Like I told you, babe, got the kids this week. Thought they had a gig tonight that meant they’d be home later so we could have dinner and do a little business. Their gig’s cancelled so they’ll be home after school. Can’t do dinner or business.”

This, I told myself, was a relief, but even as I told myself this I didn’t believe myself.

“Okay, Hop,” I said.

“I’ll come tomorrow, take you to lunch.”

Oh dear.

I had to come up with a plan to end things. Or, more accurately, buy time to create an elaborate plan that might actually work against the onslaught of all things Hopper Kincaid.

“I can’t,” I told him. “I have a lunch appointment tomorrow.”

This, fortunately, was true.

“Wednesday,” Hop immediately replied.

Damn. I didn’t have a lunch appointment on Wednesday and I needed a lot more time to create a plan that was so elaborate it might actually work.

“I work through lunch,” I informed him. It was lame but it was all I had.

“My old lady doesn’t work through lunch. She gets food in her belly and she does it eating with her old man. See you at noon.”

This was Hop’s response right before he hung up on me.

I stared at my phone for long moments before dialing him back.

Smartly, probably knowing why I was calling, Hop didn’t answer.

Gah!

Half an hour later, I received a call from a potential, huge client. They were having some issues with the creativity of their current agency drying up and they were shopping around for fresh ideas. They were giving a number of agencies a try including my agency as well as my old agency who had half-heartedly made efforts to undercut me at the same time made overtures for us to merge, something that was not going to happen. I liked being my own boss. I liked the freedom to create without someone breathing down my neck. And anyway, my offices were way cooler than their offices.

The potential client was a heavy hitter and had a massive advertising budget. It could mean big things that didn’t only include more money but possibly more clients. This approach was good. No, fabulous.

I wanted that action.

That was the good news. The bad news was, they wanted a pitch on Thursday which was nigh on impossible with the current workload even if I had come to work ahead of the game.

This meant that by Tuesday afternoon, when Hop called again, I’d worked until ten the night before and had my mind on our pitch, not on my plan to end things with Hop.

“How you doin’, lady?” he asked when I answered.

“Crazed, Hop. We have a potential new client and to build the pitch, keep up with other stuff and be able to take off Friday afternoon to meet my folks, I can’t do lunch tomorrow.” After I delivered this, I lowered my voice to finish, “I’m sorry.” And I did it actually being sorry.

Even though I didn’t want to, I had to admit, I missed my fix.

“That’s cool. I’ll bring sandwiches to your office.”

I stared at my desk blotter.

Why did I think I might get away with a valid excuse?

“Hop, seriously. It’s nuts around here.”

“Lanie, seriously, with your work, my kids and your parents here this weekend, my time seein’ you is curtailed in a way I don’t like a whole fuckin’ lot so I’ll bring sandwiches, you work, I’ll see you and it’ll all be good.”

“You’re distracting,” I snapped and this was met with silence. When that lengthened, I called, “Hop?”

“Nicest thing you’ve said to me,” he answered, a smile in his voice I felt in the region of my heart. “When I’m not fuckin’ you, that is,” he amended. “And outside you askin’ me if I wanted to fuck you and all the shit you said with that the first time you asked me to fuck you,” he went on.

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling.

“Right. Leavin’ you to get back to work after you tell me what kind of sandwich you like,” he stated.

I rolled my eyes to my computer. “This conversation could go on for four hours and you’d still be here with sandwiches at noon tomorrow, wouldn’t you?”

“Yep,” he replied, another smile in his voice.

Ty-Ty was not wrong. These boys rolled right on through even if you didn’t want them to. How I found this both irritating and attractive, I had no idea. I didn’t process that, either, except the irritating part.

“You do realize that’s kind of a jerky thing to do when you know I don’t have time to fight with you,” I pointed out.

“Yep,” he replied, still with a smile in his voice, which also meant no remorse.

“You don’t care, do you?” I asked to confirm his lack of remorse.

“Means I have lunch with you, look in your eyes, hear your voice, check you’re okay.” He paused then, “Nope.”

I sighed, liking that he wanted to look in my eyes, hear my voice, check I was okay.

God.

There it was. The reason I found his macho stubborn streak attractive.

“I like pastrami,” I told him.

“Got it,” he replied.

“And turkey. Or roast beef but only if it’s rare and only with swiss on it. Provolone if it’s pastrami. I also like Reubens but you need to tell them to go light on the sauerkraut if you take that route. I don’t like meatballs or anything that could be messy and get on my clothes, except for a Reuben, that is. No onions. My staff would be forced to smell them all day and that’s not nice. Chips, plain, nothing that could stain my fingers—like cheese puffs—or flamin’ hot. And a cookie or brownie wouldn’t go amiss.”

I stopped talking and was met with silence.

“Hop?” I called again.

“Anything else, beautiful?”

No smile in his voice. It was vibrating with suppressed laughter.

It sounded really nice.

So nice, I didn’t have it in me to do more than whisper, “No. I think that’s it.”

“All right, see you at noon tomorrow.”

“Right, Hop. Have fun with your kids tonight.”

“Always do,” he muttered. “Later, baby.”

“Bye, Hop.”

He disconnected and I put my phone on my desk at the same time it occurred to me my staff was going to see a rough, badass, albeit hot, biker walk in and have lunch with me in my office.

With ease, I shoved this from my mind.

This, I didn’t care about. Everyone had wondered why I was with Elliott, too, and I hadn’t cared about that either. I had my way of doing things. I had my baggage. I had my issues. I had my demons. But I had few pet peeves, though one of them was anyone judging a book by its cover or judging anything at all, including anyone who might judge me or my decisions.

No, I had enough head space taken up by judging myself and my decisions. I didn’t need to give more over to what anyone else thought of me.

So I didn’t.

Wednesday rolled around and the pitch was in disarray. I knew I was facing another ten o’clock night but when I felt the vibe of the office change—this wafting through my wall of windows—my eyes went there.

I saw Hop striding toward me, smiling, carrying a white paper bag held in the crook of one arm, bags of chips visible out of the top and a six-pack of diet cherry 7Up in his other hand.

At the sight, the pitch, the client, my staff, and everything else flew from my mind.

I had lost myself in work for two and a half days so it was easy (sort of) not to think of Hop except when I was in bed, trying to fall asleep and missing doing it with him and waking up in his arms.

Him there in my office—walking toward me, bringing me lunch, being hot, smiling a smile that was sexy and all for me—he was the only thing on my mind.

He was the only thing in the universe.

He hit my open door and, eyes never leaving me, greeted, “Hey, babe.”

He kicked the glass door with his boot. As it swung closed I replied unconsciously, “Hey, honey.”

His eyes and smile got warmer. He walked through the office and dumped the stuff on my desk.

“I have a stash of 7Up,” I informed him.

“Now you have a bigger stash,” he informed me.

Okay, damn.

I had to admit it.

He was getting to me.

Hop unpacked the sandwiches, handing me mine and a bag of plain Ruffles, yanking a cold 7Up off the plastic and setting it on my black desk blotter. Then he sat with his food as he had with his Chinese, feet up on the desk, open bag of Doritos in his lap, sandwich held close to his face, a 7Up at the edge of my desk.

“Pastrami,” he muttered. “Provolone. Had them grill it and hold the mustard. Nothin’ should mar that blouse, lady.” He dipped his head to my blouse, his lips curved up with appreciation. “There’s packets in the bag if you wanna go wild.”

I reached for the bag thinking, yes, he was getting to me.

I mean, everyone knew you had mustard on pastrami but very few would think to hold it in case you were willing to make the sacrifice because you were wearing a nice blouse.

Thoughtful.

Sweet.

I also was thinking we never had this, sitting, eating, everything normal, no fighting, Hop not saving me from the unwanted advances of a monster truck owner, us not having sex or about to have sex or in the aftermath of sex.

I claimed some mustard packets, opened up my sandwich and was squirting mustard on, looking for topics of conversation.

Eventually, I found one.

“How are the kids?”

“Good,” he said through a mouth full of sandwich. He chewed, swallowed, and smiled at me. “Lookin’ forward to Vail this weekend. Found a rental. They’re psyched.”

“Right,” I muttered, closing my sandwich, picking it up, and taking a bite.

Delicious. I didn’t know where he got it but I was going to find out.

“You prepared?” he asked and his tone of voice made me look to him.

I chewed, swallowed, and asked, “Prepared for what?”

“The weekend,” he answered.

“I’m never prepared, Hop,” I told him honestly and took another bite.

“Got two days, Lanie,” he said softly. “Train your mind to think you’re gonna be in God’s country, at the foot of mountains in a spot that’s one of the most beautiful places in the world. Away from this.” He threw out a hand to indicate the office. “What you’re facing sucks. Where you’re gonna face it doesn’t. Try to think of that.”

This was actually a good strategy and I couldn’t stop myself from giving him a small smile.

“I’ll train my mind, Hopper.”

“Good, baby,” he muttered, his face soft and God, God.

He was definitely getting to me.

I looked back to my sandwich, took a bite and chewed while I put it down and reached for my chips.

I swallowed my bite.

“So, what’s the deal with their mom?”

Yes, this came out of my mouth.

“Say again?”

That came out of Hop’s.

My eyes went to him and my mouth backtracked. “Sorry, not my business.”

“I asked,” Hop stated slowly. “Say again?”

“I really—”

“Babe, if you mean Mitzi, it is your business. You mean Mitzi?”

I stared at him.

Was he seriously, openly, without hesitation, going to talk about his ex?

“Well, yeah. I meant Mitzi, but I shouldn’t have asked. It isn’t my business.”

“Fuckin’ you, intend to keep fuckin’ you, want to know more about you, pleased as fuck you asked about me, so it is your business. To answer your question, the deal with Mitzi is, she’s a fuckin’ bitch.”

I blinked.

“No, a cunt,” he amended casually and my chest depressed.

“That isn’t very nice,” I told him.

“Nope. But it’s true,” he told me.

“Women don’t like that word, Hop,” I educated.

“Then women shouldn’t act like cunts,” he returned.

I didn’t like that.

Maybe he wasn’t getting to me.

“That’s unbelievably harsh,” I said softly.

He took his boots off my desk, dumped his bag of chips and sandwich on the desk, and leaned toward me, wrists to the desk, giving me all his attention.

“She is not a good woman, Lanie. Always on my ass when we were together, tough as hide, hard as nails. Don’t speak to her and, if I can help it, don’t look at her. I hate her.”

“That’s harsh…” I hesitated than finished with emphasis, “er.”

“Yep, but it’s also true.”

“Wow, Hop. I don’t know what to say,” I replied.

“Nothin’ to say. I do not not like her. I hate her. Can’t stand the sight of her.”

This was not good.

“How does that, um… affect your kids?” I asked cautiously.

“They feel it, I know it, and it sucks. Kids feel everything. Even if you’re careful, you can’t hide shit from kids. They suck stuff up like a sponge. Struggled with that, did what I could, burned in my gut every time I had to pretend to be nice to her, realized I wasn’t teachin’ them a good lesson by not bein’ true to me. I’m not a dick to her. I don’t get up in her face. I just avoid her. This has the added bonus of not givin’ her the opportunity to get up in mine.”

I had a feeling I knew what that meant.

“So she’s not a big fan of yours either?”

“She wasn’t. She’s learned. Took a while but she figured out what she had and lost. Tried to be friends. ’Way she fucked me, I wasn’t down with that. She wasn’t stupid enough to try to get back together. She knew that was a no fuckin’ go in a big fuckin’ way. Now, she just avoids me like I do her ’cause she doesn’t like to be faced with what she created.”

“What did she have and, erm… lose?”

His head cocked to the side. “Babe. Me.”

I studied him, thinking I knew what that meant too.

“So, you loved her?” I asked.

“Made a family with her,” was his answer, which I thought was an answer but it also was not.

I let that go.

“How did it go wrong?” I asked, and he leaned further toward me.

“You don’t have enough time for me to explain all the ways it went wrong, that’s how wrong it went. Honest to God, spent a lot of time thinkin’ about it and I do not have any fuckin’ clue what I was thinkin’ about, starting shit up with her. She was never sweet. She looked good. She was great in bed. She doesn’t hold a candle to you but, until you, she was the best I had. But told you, I like a challenge and that was Mitzi. Her parents were assholes, both of them, hated their daughter, hated the life I led, made sure we both knew it. Freaked me out because it was like Mitzi fed on that, got off on it. Figured it out too late that one of the reasons she was with me was because she hated them right back, maybe more, and she got a kick out of shoving me right up their asses.”

That was not good, either, and it did make Mitzi sound like a bitch in a way that leaned toward the c-word.

I felt my brows rise on my query of, “Seriously?”

“Serious as shit. She was a rebel in her fuckin’ thirties. Hadn’t found her way. Hadn’t found herself. Still stickin’ it to her parents like she was a teenager throwin’ a shit fit because they didn’t like the posters of the bands she had on her walls and, I’ll repeat, doin’ this in her fuckin’ thirties. Bitches that hang around bikers, babe, you gotta be careful. I wasn’t.”

“What does that mean?” I asked carefully, seeing as I was sort of a “bitch” who hung around bikers.

“You got to have sat with Brick after he was fucked over enough times to know,” he answered.

I had, indeed, sat sipping a beer while Brick did shots after a woman broke his heart, and I did it more than enough times.

“Well, yes,” I admitted.

“They take advantage of a tough guy with a soft heart. That’s what he picks. Strung out, needing to be fixed, unfixable; he gets fucked in the end. Then there are the ones who have an idea about bikers and they got problems. They think they’re gonna get worked over, torn down, dominated. They want that shit and I know you’re gonna think that’s all kinds of whacked but it’s also the goddamned truth. Had a woman in my bed, honest to Christ, babe, she asked me to punch her. Punch her. Not spank her, not even smack her, which I wouldn’t do, but fuckin’ hit her. Begged me for it. That shit got her ass kicked out of my bed.”

“Oh my God,” I breathed, staring at him, unable to take this information in.

“Not fuckin’ with you,” he told me, going back to his sandwich.

“I… that’s… that’s crazy,” I told him.

He took a bite and his eyes came to me as he muttered, “Yep.”

He finished chewing, swallowed and continued his tales of lunacy.

“That stuff you said the other night about where old ladies fit in the life of a biker, club then bike and all that shit, women are drawn to that. They don’t think enough of themselves to find a man who thinks the world of them so they look for a man who’ll fit them in kinda close to the top and they’re down with that. They think that’s makin’ out good. Others are so weak all they wanna do is party, get high, get laid, and lay everything on their old man’s shoulders, so they can keep partying, getting high and getting laid. Shit’s whacked. They’re all over. Next hog roast, honey, I’ll point them out. They come back again and again hopin’ one of the brothers is not gonna read them and know what they’re buyin’ if they go there. Fuckin’ crazy.”

“Was Mitzi like that?” I asked, digging into my chips.

“No, Mitzi was just a bitch on a mission ’cause her head was messed up and I didn’t spot that either. Didn’t like her folks because they didn’t like me but, outside of being judgmental pains in the ass who hated a daughter who hated them back, they’re decent enough folk who I think genuinely wondered where they went wrong with their girl. And not sayin’ Mitzi pulled the wool over my eyes bein’ sugar sweet. Just didn’t know what was under all that hard but I did know I wanted to find out. What I found was, I’d hit spots of soft that felt good, warm, lasted awhile, and I thought I’d struck true. Then the hard would close around again and I couldn’t breathe. In the end, there weren’t any soft spots left to find.”

“That sounds awful, Hop,” I whispered.

“It wasn’t a fuckuva lot of fun, Lanie.” He did not whisper.

I licked my lower lip and gave it time before I told him honestly and quietly, “You know, people talk.”

He held my eyes. “I know.”

“They don’t talk much,” I shared.

“I know that, too.”

“But they said it was ugly.”

He drew in breath then stated, “Yeah, it was and what this is, over sandwiches in your office, is not even half of it. I’ll tell you because you’re with me, you gotta know. But I’ll say, lady, I’ll tell you when the time is right for you and this is not it. I’m not keepin’ shit from you. But things you gotta know for the now, my kids are good. I’d rather their lives be steadier but I went back to her more than once to give them that and got nothin’ but a rough ride when I did. They didn’t need to see their dad go through that. But in the end, she fucked me, babe. It was not pretty and you do not fuck me. You can be a bitch. You can bust my balls. I’m not gonna lie down for it, but there’s a lot a man will do for his children. But never, ever fuck me. She fucked me. We cope by limiting our time in each other’s space to near to nothing. It works. For you, that’s the end for now.”

When he stopped speaking, I held his eyes.

Then, hesitantly, I asked, “Are you… looking for soft spots with me?”

It was then he held my eyes for one beat… two… three.

Then he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

I felt my eyes narrow.

“Hop,” I called.

He kept laughing, his head now bowed, hand up, waving at me to give him a moment.

Yes. Apparently what I’d asked was that funny.

“Hop!” I snapped. His head came up and his eyes caught mine. “I was actually being serious,” I informed him.

“I know,” he choked out.

“Stop laughing!” I clipped, short and angry, and he abruptly stopped.

Just as abruptly, he pushed out of his chair and rounded my desk, and before I knew what he was doing he was bent into me, hands on either side of my head, his face all I could see.

“You put yourself in front of bullets for your fiancé,” he whispered and my breath stopped. “Baby, you don’t have any hard spots.”

“I—”

His hands on my head pressed in gently just as his forehead came to rest on mine.

“You don’t, and just so you know, that is not why I’m with you or why I want you, the fact that you’re the kind of woman who did that for him. What you did was beautiful, the ultimate, but it’s who you are that interests me.”

He had to stop.

“Hop, you need to take your hands off me and step back.”

“Worried what your staff will think?”

“I don’t care what they think,” I retorted. “But you’re being sweet again, saying nice things again and getting to me, and I need a break and I want to finish my sandwich.”

“I’m getting to you?”

“Step back.”

His eyes held mine a moment before he muttered, “I’m getting to you.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Babe,” he called.

I rolled my eyes back.

“Wanna know part of who you are that interests me?”

“Are you going to say something nice?”

“Yes.”

“Then no.”

I watched his eyes smile.

Then he started to speak and, per usual, he did it against my wishes.

“Part of who you are that interests me is that you don’t care what they think. I walk into your cush offices, you say ‘hey, honey’ and don’t even fuckin’ blink. Wearin’ motorcycle boots or a suit, it’s all the same to you. And a woman like you, so knockout gorgeous, most movie stars would give their left nut just for you to walk up a red carpet on their arm, a banker’s daughter who sleeps in unbelievably soft sheets and drives a sweet ride ninety-nine percent of the population can’t afford acts like that. Now that interests me.”

Okay, I was back to him getting to me.

“I’ve decided to be un-biker-friendly,” I announced, and watched his eyes smile again.

“Too late.”

“Figures,” I mumbled.

“Right. I’m here, kiss me, we’ll finish our sandwiches and then I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Hop, I’ve got pastrami breath.”

“So?”

“It might be gross.”

Another smile. “It won’t be gross.”

“It’ll be gross.”

“Kiss me.”

“No.”

“Kiss me.”

“No!”

Hop slanted his head and kissed me.

I kissed him back.

He let me go, we finished our sandwiches and he kissed me again before he let me get back to work.

I got looks all afternoon and I didn’t care because I wouldn’t normally care, but also because all I could think about was Hop getting to me.

And that I sort of wanted him to bring me lunch the next day.

And that I not so sort of wished he’d be in my bed that night.

Alas, Thursday, I got nothing but a phone call. I was busy with work. Hop was busy with Chaos business and his kids.

But Friday morning, about two and a half seconds after I got the call, I turned to my cell, snatched it up, and called Hop.

“Lady,” he answered.

“We got the account!” I shrieked.

I could actually tell the smile in his voice was huge when he replied, “Good news, baby.”

“Great news. Fabulous news. Christmas bonuses for the staff news,” I corrected.

Hop was silent.

When this silence spread, I called, “Hop? Did I lose you?”

“You absolutely did not lose me.”

No smile in his voice but the rough tone of it that communicated colossal things made my body go completely still.

“You work your tail off for that account, your first thought is Christmas bonuses for your staff,” he stated.

I said nothing, just concentrated on breathing and ignoring the warmth shrouding my heart.

“No hard, Lanie. All soft,” he whispered like that meant everything to him.

Everything.

I again said nothing.

“And fuck, but I like it,” he finished.

It meant everything.

“Hop,” I whispered.

“Wish we could celebrate. We’ll do it next week. Yeah?”

I closed my eyes.

Then I opened them and said, “Yeah.”

I did this because I wanted to celebrate, I wanted to know how Hop celebrated, and because he was getting to me.

“Lettin’ you go,” he replied.

I didn’t want him to let me go. I wanted his voice in my ear. I wanted that warmth he gave me to stay close around my heart.

I didn’t say this.

I said, “Okay, Hop.”

“Later, lady.”

“Bye, honey.”

We disconnected and, without a big new client to concentrate on, I was unable to keep him off my mind.

Also unwilling.

And my thoughts didn’t go to planning how to end things.

They went to how Hopper Kincaid would celebrate his old lady getting a big new client.

Now, I standing in my bedroom, staring at my bag and facing a weekend with my parents and trying to train my thoughts on Vail, God’s country, which was gorgeous.

Suddenly I sensed movement that shouldn’t be there since I was alone in my house and I jumped, whipping my head around to see Hop walking into my room.

“What are you doing here?” I asked as he moved to me.

He made it to me, his hand lifting, fingers curling around the side of my neck, thumb extended which he used at my jaw to push my head back as his dipped down and his lips and ’tache brushed my lips.

When he lifted his head, he answered, “Wanted to see you, check you’re okay, and someone has to haul your suitcase down the stairs.”

That warmth hit my heart again.

He wanted to see me, check I was okay and, he didn’t live in Siberia and take a flight to do the deed, but he did go out of his way just to carry my suitcase down the stairs.

“I can carry a suitcase, Hop,” I told him.

“Babe, you were at Hotel Monaco for two nights and your bag weighed half a ton.”

I felt my lips quirk as I said, “It didn’t weigh half a ton.”

He grinned at me. “Close.”

I grinned back.

His hand at my neck gave me a squeeze as his eyes got serious. “You good?”

“God’s country,” I replied and his grin came back.

“Yeah,” he muttered, looked at the bed then at me. “This good?”

I nodded.

He pulled me slightly to him and then pushed me gently back, swaying me with his hand at my neck before he let me go and bent to the bed. Flipping the case closed, he zipped it and hauled it off the bed.

I took one last look around, checking for lights left on or anything that I might have forgotten, and followed him downstairs.

He dropped the bag by my front door and turned to me. “Half a ton.”

I smiled up at him. “Hardly.”

His hand snaked out, grabbed me around the neck and pulled me to him. My head tipped back. His came down. My arms wrapped around his shoulders. His free arm wrapped tight around my waist. His lips hit mine. Mine opened.

And we kissed, wet and deep, for a long time.

Hop broke it, moving away an inch. “Leavin’ now, gettin’ the kids, headin’ up. Text you in the morning where we’re gonna be for breakfast so you can get your folks there.”

I nodded. “Drive safe.”

“Got kids, always do.”

I smiled again and his eyes dropped to my mouth before coming back to mine.

“Still gettin’ to you?” His question was whisper soft.

No.

The honest answer to that was, he’d already gotten to me.

I dipped my chin and pressed my face to his throat.

His hand at the back of my neck slid up into my hair as I felt his lips against the top of my head.

“Like that answer, lady.”

My arms around his shoulders got tight.

“God’s country, Lanie,” he said against my hair.

I nodded against his throat. “God’s country.”

I felt his lips leave my hair as his hand at my head gave me a squeeze. I got the message, pulled back and looked up at him.

Hop touched his mouth to mine then lifted up and touched his lips to my forehead. He moved back, his eyes caught mine, he gave me a sexy smile that engaged the lines at the sides of his eyes then he let me go, turned to the door and disappeared behind it.

I went to the plantation shutters, slid them slightly open and looked out, watching him saunter to his bike, throw a leg over, and roar away.

He’d come all the way to my house to carry one suitcase down one flight of stairs.

And to check on me.

I slapped the shutters closed, leaned my forehead against them and smiled.