Dream Chaser (Dream Team, #2)(5)

And then I found myself standing there, blinking at him as he stalked around the hood of his car to the driver’s side.

He’d opened the door, but didn’t angle in, because I was still standing there.

“Now,” he ordered.

Only then did he angle in.

All right, I was going home anyway.

But…

Again…

What the hell?

And, more.

Did he know where I lived?

Apparently, he did, because he made his point I needed to get my ass to my place by making his engine roar (and again, imminent orgasm, mine and probably a dozen other moms’).

I hoofed it to my car, and once inside, glanced quickly at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

I’d pulled a brush through my hair because it wouldn’t do to have semi-slept-on, teased-out stripper hair when taking the kids to school.

But it was still a mass that was mostly a mess of honey-blonde flips and curls.

No makeup, and serious, I was such a makeup freak, even if I was living my dream of knocking down walls to create great rooms and grouting tile, I’d have makeup on.

I always had makeup on.

Gray oversized tee. Black skinny jeans with rips in the knees. Powder Valentino Rockstud slides.

In that moment, I wasn’t my normal edgy Ryn Jansen who (if I did say so myself, which I did) made Kendall Jenner look like a novice at putting together streetwear.

So I felt vulnerable.

But he’d already seen me.

And he was on some mission.

So I might feel vulnerable, but I also had no choice.

I hit my pad which was the bottom quarter of a big house that had been broken up into four apartments in what loosely could still be considered Capitol Hill, on Pearl, a couple blocks south from Colfax.

There were parking spots out back, though I never bothered, because they were always taken by other tenants.

And even if street parking was always at a premium, Boone not only knew where my house was, he’d found a spot before I did, and I knew this because he was waiting at my front door.

“You wanna tell me what this is about?” I asked after I walked up to him.

“Inside,” he grunted.

Oh shit.

With my morning and all that was Boone suddenly and unexpectedly invading it, I didn’t even think.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Inside,” he repeated.

“Evie all right?”

“Inside.”

“Lottie?”

“Ryn, get your ass inside.”

Here’s the second part of the deal:

If you weren’t working me up to an orgasm.

And you were a boss.

And you bossed me.

My first reaction would be to fight the urge to knock your teeth down your throat.

Even wired, tired, worried about what this was with Boone, and in a negative headspace, I successfully fought the urge to knock Boone’s teeth down his throat (not that I’d achieve that, again, the dude was a commando, he’d probably ninja-move me, and it would end in humiliation).

I let us in.

So, my pad had character.

And not all of it was the good kind.

In fact, most of it wasn’t.

The kitchen needed updating about two decades ago. It was small, cramped, had little counter space, a thin-piled carpet that had so many spills and smells and so much steam and grease soaked in, it was like a thin living stew (so I ignored it), but the rest…well, I was used to it.

We entered in the little vestibule/mudroom and I led him to the living room.

But down from the foyer was a narrow hall, where off to the left, first, was a tiny bedroom, down the way was a small bath, and at the back was my bedroom, which was only slightly bigger than the tiny one.

Off my living room was a dining room (without a dining room table, or anything, it was a largish space in my smallish pad that I’d only found a rug for and then stopped trying because I was going to flip houses, but ended up taking care of someone else’s kids) which fed into my aforementioned scary kitchen.

Both living room and dining room had fireplaces.

They were rad.

Straight up, if I had the cash, and the time, I’d buy this house from my landlord and restore it to its former glory. The mantels, the tile, the wood floors, the high ceilings, the cornices, the ceiling roses.

Sublime.

As mentioned, I did not have the time or money.

Boone walked directly to the built-in hutch at the end of my dining room and stopped.

Beginning to seriously lose patience with this, whatever it was, I followed.

And stopped.

“Boone, what the hell?”

With my head where it was at, I didn’t notice he had a folder with him.

He opened it and tossed an 8×10 full-color glossy on the counter of the hutch.

I looked down at it.

It was a picture of Angelica, looking pretty damned good, messy topknot in her hair, cute form-fitting tank dress…

Valentino Rockstud jelly thongs on her feet.

I stared.

Boone tapped the picture and I forced my attention from the $350 flip-flops she was wearing to the sign above the place she was walking out of.

It was a fucking day spa.

My head jerked when he tossed another photo down.

Angelica enjoying lunch al fresco with a friend. Another cute outfit. A sparkling glass of rosé wine in front of her.