Part 22 (1/2)

This was because I did not trust my sat nav because I did not expect him to be living in the location at which it was pointing.

It was across the tracks LoDo, to the northeast along South Platte River, beyond Confluence Park and amongst a bunch of dead end streets, train tracks, supply warehouses and large self-storage units.

Even in this urban no man's land, his building was well-kept, exceptionally so, if nondescript considering it had been a warehouse prior to its resurgence to what it was now.

It was a new renovation. I knew this because it looked it, there were very few cars in the parking lot (two, exactly) and there was a sign out front that said units were for sale.

The building was painted light gray with darker gray and black detailing, this detailing being mostly brickwork and some signage but also a variety of iron stairwells on the outside of the building (there were four, one on each side).

The huge windows were multipaned, likely how they'd always been, but it was obvious they'd been switched out for new.

The parking lot had to have been redone completely, considering the fact it now had green s.p.a.ce with fledgling trees that would one day be beautiful and throw a great deal of shade.

And the lighting around the building did not invite the unwanted there for nefarious ends, as could be found in this neighborhood where there wasn't much population and not much happened after close of the scattered businesses.

I followed the signs to the unit Nick's text gave me and slid my Evoque into a spot outside it that was next to one of the two cars in the lot, a red Jaguar F-TYPE coupe.

The car was gorgeous. It was also totally Nick-handsome, hot, fast and sleek.

I wanted to ride in that car with Nick.

I was never going to ride in that car with Nick.

This knowledge weighed heavily on me as I looked to the top of the iron stairway and saw a large, square, warehouse door to the side of which were big, modern, black metal letters that said Unit 8.

”What are you doing, Livvie?” I whispered.

But even doing so, without delay, I pushed open my door and swung my carnation pink patent leather Jimmy Choo, spike-heeled pump out.

I got out of my car. I beeped the locks. I walked up the iron steps. And I stood in the recess, knocking on the big, square door.

I dropped my hand and my head, staring at the pointed toes of my fabulous pumps peeking out from the bootleg hems of my expertly faded (because I bought them that way), low-rise jeans.

”I should not be here,” I whispered to my toes.

You are not hard to look at.

I squeezed my eyes tight.

You're sharp and smart and funny.

I swallowed.

And straight up, I'd rather sit around eatin' spaghetti talkin' to you while lookin' at you before I f.u.c.k you than sit in my place by myself waitin' for you to show and climb on my d.i.c.k.

Maybe I could do this.

Because he could do this.

He didn't want any attachments.

He knew the boundaries.

He wanted nothing to do with my family (smart man) and he wanted my family to have nothing to do with him (again, smart).

He knew. He knew he existed in our world the way he did, which was providing integral services to people who could afford them.

And he knew I existed in our world as part of my family's business which was just plain toxic in our world and any other (thus he wanted nothing to do with it).

He'd keep me on the straight and narrow.

I heard a loud noise that sounded like sc.r.a.ping steel and then another one that sounded like heavy steel rolling on steel. I lifted my head and watched the door slide to the side.

Like last night when he'd shown for the first time wearing jeans, a Henley and a leather jacket rather than opening the door in a dress s.h.i.+rt and nice trousers, Nick Sebring was at home in comfort.

Thus casual.

Tonight, not a nice Henley and faded jeans.

Faded jeans and what appeared to be a cobalt blue V-neck cashmere sweater.

At the sight of him my c.l.i.t started tingling.

”Yeah,” he whispered and the tone of that word made my gaze go from his wide chest to his face.

My stomach turned over.

His eyes stopped traveling the length of me and cut back to my face.

”Rather look at you while I'm eatin' spaghetti than do it alone,” he finished.

That felt nice.

No, I should not be there.

”Uh...hey,” I pushed out.

His mouth quirked, he took one step toward me, grabbed my hand and pulled me in.

I heard the sound of sc.r.a.ping metal again as the door was being rolled back as well as the bolt being turned.

But I was looking around the s.p.a.ce.

Deeply distressed, thus deeply attractive gleaming wide plank floors.

To the right, a couple of steps up through a wide exposed brick arch, a room that held a king-size bed. This s.p.a.ce was large and illuminated only slightly by a modern lamp on the nightstand that gave off a reddish-pink glow as well as the outside lights coming in the huge arched, multipaned window that was at the front of the unit.

His bedroom area held masculine, st.u.r.dy, wood furniture, all with minimal design but what design it had held a bent toward a modern that would turn cla.s.sic, not go out of style.

To the left, a seating/TV area with another enormous window and beyond that, colossal open s.p.a.ce. This s.p.a.ce included a kitchen with stainless steel countertops and appliances, black cabinets and an enormous butcher-block topped island. It also included a modern dining room table with high backed chairs that seated six, as well as an area beyond that was set up with a desk facing the room, a desk that, from the scatterings on its top, was used.