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“What for? You just let a toddler stroll inside like it’s Disneyland.” As I peer past him, I can see Justin ambling deeper into the dark hallway that leads to God knows what.

“I know him. I don’ know you. And you don’ sound like you’re from round here.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, dude? Look, just let me grab the kid before he gets into trouble. I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on him.”

The laugh he snorts is fitting for his trolliness. “Well, you’re doin’ a right fine job of that, I’d say.”

“Piss off, this is ridiculous.” I shove at the guy, refusing to let a child wander around a strip club until I, at least, know he’s with his mom. Christ, who knows what shady people he’ll run into. I’ve seen Pinocchio. This definitely seems like the kind of place that would turn him into a donkey.

The grip on my arm tightens, refusing to let me go.

“Hey!”

“Do we have a problem?” The unfamiliar voice stops me in my tracks, and I freeze in place as a flash of movement draws my attention back toward the shadowed hallway.

Smooth, almost arrogant stride. Bold lines that sketch an intimidating silhouette.

The light outside the door gradually illuminates the dark slacks, followed by a black button-down shirt that clings to muscles not quite as bulky as Troll Boy’s, and a suit coat that screams Bossman, whether he is, or isn’t. Broad shoulders taper to a fit waist, beneath which he’s tucked his hands into his pockets, completely relaxed. When his face finally comes into view, something cold shivers down my spine as I take in the piercing, brown, bedroom eyes, ones I bet have turned harder, colder females to a gooey pile of lust. Intelligent and emotionless eyes, like those of a man who would dine on your heart with one of those fancy little cocktail forks, all while wearing a bib and a callous smirk the whole time.

On top of all that, the sharp angles of his jaw, minimal shadowing of stubble, and small creases at the corners of eyes give him a slightly older appearance. Not too old, but definitely older than me.

My freaking kryptonite, standing before me like a bad joke.

“No problem, Boss. This one’s tryin’a get inside without any ID.”

Of course he’s a boss. That much I could guess, but something else thrums beneath the unsettling tension given off by this man’s exterior. A calm and lethal grace, befitting a predator. Like the cutting strokes of a shark below turbulent waters.

Those dark eyes swallow my body, head to toe, like his eyeballs have X-ray vision and he can see my strawberry-print panties and the purple bra that doesn’t match. “Do you have ID?” The rich timbre of his voice hits my ear like a tuning fork that sends a shiver down into my chest.

Snap out of it, Cely.

Yeah, he’s hot. I get it, he’s the distraction the universe sent to test me. This is a test. To see if I’m strong enough to resist what I’ll bet is a total control freak with painfully luscious lips that could probably qualify as a weapon between a woman’s thighs. Everything about him is checking my boxes, and I’m finding it hard to ignore that fact, the longer I stare.

Russ is behind this. He has to be. After all, he was the one who warned me to stay away from the pricks with devilish good looks, and this one has them in spades. He’s testing my weaknesses.

“Not on me.”

“Are you twenty-one, catin?” Those eyes stare back at me, as if he can see right through me to the nail salon somewhere behind me, and that slip of French Valir rolls off his tongue like an invisible kiss.

I don’t even know what the hell catin means, but I’ll surely make a point to find out after this.

“Look, I’m not trying to get a peek of … whatever ... you’ve got going on inside. I was supposed to be watching a kid. His mom went inside. I just want to grab him, before some shady businessman in a three-piece suit suddenly decides he likes lamb instead of mutton, you know what I mean?” The thought of that twists my stomach.

The guy’s lip twitches, as if he wants to laugh but refuses. On instinct, my eyes wander to his perfectly pressed clothes that fit him to a T, as if he’s had them tailored that way. This is a man who keeps a tight leash on himself, and it shows.

“And where is this boy now?” The air of boredom and disinterest clinging to his voice tells me this whole scenario is nothing more than an inconvenience to him.

My antics are keeping him from something more important.

“I’m guessing wherever your nearest bathroom is. He had to … number two.”

Again, something flickers across his face, and he clears his throat, turning to the big man still holding me captive. “You let a child inside?”

“Marcelle’s boy.”

“I never asked whose.”

“Yessir. My apologies, I just didn’ recognize the fille.”