Chaos series by Kristen Ashley

“Yo,” he called.

“Uh…” I mumbled.

His shit-eating grin got bigger and sexier.

A tremor shook me.

“This is Vance Crowe,” Hop introduced, jerking a thumb at Vance and telling me something I already knew.

Vance Crowe worked for Lee Nightingale of Nightingale Investigations. He was famous. All the Nightingale men were famous. This was because newspaper articles and books were written about them. And newspaper articles and books were written about them because they were all talented private investigators who had a knack for the business and a way of finding trouble. Bad trouble. And that trouble usually had to do with a fantastically beautiful damsel in distress who would, in the end, find herself married to one of the Nightingale men.

I looked back at Vance to see my console again looked normal with no wires hanging out and he was turned to me.

“Manual override,” he stated, “Very manual,” he went on. “It’s good now. When you leave, just set it like normal.”

I blinked.

Vance turned to Hop. “Later, man.”

Hop stuck out a hand and they did a complicated, jerky, manly, completely cool and weirdly hot handshake as Hop stated, “Marker.”

“You got it,” Vance replied as they broke contact. “I need you, I’ll call.”

“Right,” Hop said, jerking up his chin.

Vance jerked up his, turned to me, and gave me another grin. I got a chin jerk then he turned and disappeared through my door.

Hop moved to it, locked it and then turned to me.

He started talking as he walked toward me.

“Took some work, had to ask around and be cool about it but got it from Big Petey. Kung pao shrimp.”

I blinked again.

Hop made it to me, shifted slightly sideways and either by necessity or design his hard body brushed mine as he moved by me and into my office.

Again woodenly, I pivoted to see Hop looking around as he walked to my desk and dumped the bag on it.

He turned to look back at me. “Cush, babe.”

I didn’t look at my button-backed white leather couch against the wall. The high-backed white leather executive chair behind my sleek, modern but feminine glass-and-chrome desk. My all-in-one, huge-screened computer. The white leather chairs in front of my desk. The thick rug on the floor with its stark graphic design in white, black, hot pink, and tangerine. Or the fabulous art deco prints on the wall.

I stared at him.

He looked back to the bag and started to unearth white containers with red Asian designs on their sides, muttering, “Expected nothin’ less.”

“What just happened?” I asked.

He twisted his neck to look at me, his hand wrapped around paper-bound chopsticks. “Crowe’s good at bypassing security systems.”

“What just happened?” I repeated.

Hop straightened to full height and turned to me, whereupon he explained more fully, “Lookin’ for you so I could bring you dinner, saw your car in the underground garage. Came up. Saw the security console through your door, you at your desk. Console stated security was engaged. Called Crowe. Did some snooping. Found out you liked kung pao shrimp. Ordered it. Got it. Met Crowe here. I picked the lock. Crowe bypassed your system. Now we’re eatin’ while you finish up and shut down then we’re goin’ to my place to watch some TV and spend the night.”

There was a lot there so I started at the top.

“I didn’t see you come up.” I motioned to the wall of windows beside me that had a straight view to the front doors, which were also a wall of windows.

“I didn’t want to be seen,” he informed me.

I went back to staring at him, forgetting about the rest of what we needed to go over.

He went back to the food. Placing my container in front of my chair, he took his, sat in one of my sleek white leather chairs, shifted low, leaned back and lifted his motorcycle boots to my desk, ankles crossed.

He then commenced eating.

At this point, I remembered what we needed to go over, prioritized quickly and announced, “I’m not eating dinner with you.”

“It’s Imperial,” he replied.

Damn.

Imperial kung pao shrimp was the best and I was hungry. I’d had a big lunch but that was five hours ago.

And anyway, what would he do with that food if I didn’t eat it? Would it go to waste?

Sacrilege.

Okay, maybe I was going to eat.

Moving on.

“I’m not going to your place to watch TV and definitely I’m not spending the night,” I declared.

“Okay, we’ll go to yours,” he returned.

“We’re not doing that either.”

His eyes hit my overnight bag then came back to me while I tried to ignore the smell of delicious Chinese food filling the air.

“Where we goin’?” Hop asked.

“Where I’m going is none of your business,” I answered.

He grinned, clamped his chopsticks around some noodles and shoved them in his mouth, eyes on me, the grin never leaving his face.

I watched this thinking it stunk that even watching him eat was somehow sexy. Then I moved to thinking it stunk that seeing him slouched in my sleek white leather chair with his feet on my desk was also sexy. He was all hot biker in leather and faded denim, stubble, unruly hair. My office was all pristine, clean edges, glass, chrome, and splashes of bright colors. He didn’t fit. His presence there, regardless of his casual pose, was an invasion and I’d discovered weeks ago I liked all the ways Hop could invade.

Just then, I discovered this kind of invasion was included.

He was not of my life, my work, my home. He came from a life that was wild and free. Where it was okay not to shave or get regular haircuts. Where you didn’t throw away supremely faded jeans; you wore them because they were fabulous. Where you casually broke in somewhere you wanted to be, bringing along your buddy who could adeptly, if feloniously, disarm security systems.

Where rules didn’t apply, only feelings did.

You went with your gut, you led with your heart, you did what you wanted and you didn’t think of consequences.

You lived.

You were free.

Yes, Hop invading my office bringing Chinese food brought all this to me.

And I liked it.

I shook these thoughts off and realized he hadn’t replied.

“Hop—” I started but he swallowed and interrupted me.

“Sit down, Lanie, and eat. It’s getting cold.”

I took two steps into the room, stopped and said quietly but firmly, “I don’t have the energy to spar with you tonight. I’ve been working for five hours and although not physically taxing, it’s been mentally draining. I just want a quiet night.” I shook my head and amended, “No, I need a quiet night.”