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“I’ll be right up,” I mutter.
Groaning, I punch the button to remotely open the gate as I climb the stairs to the ground floor.
Paperwork. At this damn hour.
The man should really tell his people that some things can wait for morning, no matter how urgent. I’m practically snarling as I see a small figure standing behind the front door, the privacy glass currently set to frosted.
“If this is from Mr. Haute personally,” I start as I throw the door open, “you should tell him he can wait until—”
I freeze.
This isn’t one of Haute’s lackeys, not unless I’ve tripped into a parallel universe.
It’sher.
All cinnamon-red hair and evil green eyes and slightly flushed cheeks. She tilts her head and looks me up and down, assessing my every movement.
Slowly. Like she has all the time in the world.
Goddammit.
And here I am, sweating like a horse and dressed like a gym rat.
“Expecting someone else?” she asks as she steps past me into the foyer, without an invitation. “Sorry to intrude—but not really. I just thought I should check outourhome, sugar.”
A breeze blows in with her like Satan himself laughing. I slam the door with enough force to rattle the house.
“What the hell are you doing here, Miss Winkley?”
“Oh?” She quirks an eyebrow at me. “You mean you don’tlikeunexpected visits? That’s a shame.”
Teeth, meet tongue.
She’s got me there.
I want to rip into her, machine gun reasons why this is inappropriate, rude, and just fucking weird.
Only, it’s not when I’m the asshole who went therefirst.
I targeted her family as a means to an end.
“I’m sure you’re upset about earlier, and for good reason. To be fair, I never invaded your home and private space. I wouldn’t dare,” I say gruffly. “The Sugar Bowl is public and open to anyone.”
“Not when it’s closed,” she snaps, turning those green eyes on me like jade knives. She walks around, checking out the dark Madagascar flooring, the open-plan kitchen housing high-end smart appliances, the large Japandi style lounge with the mounted TV on the wall, and a fireplace set in immaculately handcrafted woodwork. “Jeez, dude. Can you save some real estate for the rest of us?”
My lip curls.
“Miss Winkley, I’m warning you. I don’t need this tonight.”
“Oh, yeah? That’s a shame.” Her voice is hard. “I kinda know the feeling. It’s such a drag when you’re ambushed after a long day, isn’t it?”
Damn her to hell and back.
When I decided to be an idiot, I knew she’d be pissed, but coming to my house is some next-level fuckery.
“I left you a number. Call it,” I growl, following her through the kitchen as she walks through my place like it’s an art gallery.
My plate’s still there from dinner, half a large enchilada sitting on the counter, waiting to go in the fridge.
