face. It was her sly smile.
What’s that about?
Before I could ask, she rushed out like the safety of the world depended on her folding laundry right that second.
Leaving me.
With Maximo.
Alone in a giant kitchen that suddenly seemed the size of a broom closet.
Before I could make my escape, Maximo asked, “You like the dress?”
Suddenly forgetting what I was even wearing, I glanced down at the casual skater dress. It’d been left on my bed a few days before with a note from Maximo congratulating me on the A I’d gotten on a Geography test—one of my strengths thanks to having moved so much.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been surprised with a gift for a good grade. Like the float celebration, it wasn’t the items themselves, but the thought behind them that meant so much.
“I love it,” I told him, “but you don’t have to—”
“Say thank you, Juliet.”
At his tone, my body tightened in a not unpleasant way and a tremor ran down my spine. My hands grew so clammy, I worried my drink would slip from my hold. I did as he ordered, my voice airy and softer than intended. “Thank you.”
He didn’t respond as he eyed me with an unreadable expression.
The room no longer felt like a broom closet. It was even smaller. And someone had sucked all the air from it. There was none left. That was why I was suddenly lightheaded and breathless.
I needed to get out before Maximo heard how embarrassingly loud my heart pounded.
Or before his too sharp eyes noticed the effect he had on me.
Gripping my cup, I started to slide off the counter. “I’m going to get started on—”
His tattooed hand came down on my bare thigh, his fingers curling around to keep me in place and send a rush of emotion—and inappropriate arousal—through me.
My wide eyes shot to his arctic dark ones.
“Stay and finish your ice cream,” he ordered—calm, collected, and unaware of the riot he’d started within me. “You earned it.”
His hold tightened before he removed his hand and stalked out.
Holy.
Shit.
I had work to do, but I wasn’t sure I could walk on my Jell-O legs or focus on anything other than the phantom sensation of his hand on me.
Staying where I was, I grabbed Freddy’s handwritten recipe book and flipped through to the baking section.
And then, for reasons I didn’t want to acknowledge, I searched for chewy chocolate chip cookies.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The One with Even More Time Jumps
Maximo
One Month Later
WALKING AROUND THE empty makeshift arena, I double checked that everything was in place.
It was going to be a wild night.
If boxing at Moonlight brought out everyone’s primal side, the matches I held at the warehouse brought out their basest instincts.
No-holds-barred.
No bet restrictions.
No regulations.
The first two bouts were amateur. It gave my guests a sneak peek at up-and-coming fighters. Ones who were desperate for a sponsor to get them on the map.
And the rich motherfuckers who would pack the seats were desperate to live vicariously through them.
The event was exclusive. No one got through without an invite. Every guest had to be vetted. Security was tight and unbreachable.
That VIP feeling, the knowledge they were a have and not a have-not, added to the night. As did the less-than-ideal surroundings. It was dirty and raw.
Wrong.
The illegalness was the high the bastards needed to feel something again.
Checking out the other side, Serrano met me in the middle. He gave a low whistle. “It’s going to be a moneymaker. Ortiz said one of the guests has already dropped a couple hundred grand at the blackjack tables.”
“Good. Hopefully he’s got enough left to lose here, too.”
The heavy door opened, and my hand went to my Glock until I saw it was Ash.
“One of your VIPs at Nebula wants a meeting with you,” he called to me.
“Handle it.”
Because I sure as hell don’t want to.
“I tried, but he insists on talking to the big boss.”
I dragged my hand down my face.
All my properties were upscale, but Nebula was my luxury resort. It was the best of the best, which was why it cost a fucking shit-ton to stay in a basic room. A night in one of the suites or penthouses was more than most people’s mortgage for a couple months.
The majority of my guests were happy to make their own trouble, but there was always one who wanted to feel like the ultimate VIP.
“Did he say what he wanted?” I asked.
“No, which means Mr. Dicky-doo probably wants pussy, dick, drugs, or all three at the