“Did you”—I cleared my throat, trying not to let emotion get the best of me at the mention of my father—“did you like your stepdad?”

“He was rarely around, but I liked him more than my mother.” When I didn’t respond, he lowered his voice to a murmur and asked me, “You think it’s wrong of me to say that, don’t you?”

“It just makes me a little sad.” It made me hurt for both of us, though I could never admit that to him.

I felt his fingers on my chin, and I braced myself for the deluge of emotions I knew would shake me when he forced my eyes to his. “Don’t feel bad for me,” he said, before dropping his hand from my face and grabbing his empty beer bottle.

From my research about him, I already knew he’d played three seasons of Ivy League college basketball before a compound fracture ended his sports career. As if to demonstrate, and take my mind off the fact he’d given more of himself than he probably wished to offer, he sunk the bottle into the trashcan across the room.

“Show off,” I laughed.

He raised a thick eyebrow. “I haven’t even started, beautiful,” he promised, and anticipation sliced through me. Every intelligent fiber in my body was yelling for me to get up and leave now before it was too late, but I recklessly brushed it off.  “So what brought you to L.A.?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” When his lip quirked, I leaned closer and said, “I wanted to be around fashion.”

“And you picked my mother.” His broad shoulders vibrated as laughter ran through him. “Not that I’m complaining, but why the hell did you do that?” he demanded incredulously as he got up and grabbed a second beer.

“Must be nice to drink and work,” I said lightheartedly, changing the subject when he returned to the table, and the dark lashes I’d coveted that morning in the HR department came together as he narrowed his eyes.

“I hit a sore spot. I’ll have to remember that, but I’ll play along. There’s a difference between refreshment and getting wasted. Still, I’d be happy to give you a job here. Maybe then you’d be compelled to answer my emails.”

“What?”

“You haven’t answered my emails.” He emphasized his words, not as pronounced as Margaret would, but still enough to irk me.

“I’ve answered everything you sent.”

“I’ve sent you a few since last week.” Unhooking the buttons on his shirt cuffs, he rolled his sleeves up. My attention dropped to the forearm closest to me. I traced my eyes over the strong, muscular lines of his flesh to a tattoo that peeked out from the crisp white shirt, and I wanted to know what it was. “You didn’t receive them?”

Hesitantly, I dragged my gaze from his arm to his eyes. “The only things I’ve received are the flowers. Thank you, by the way, they were beautiful.”

“So no emails at all?”

Squeezing my eyebrows together, I shook my head. “No,” I repeated.

His expression was unreadable for a moment, and as we sat in silence, with the energy crackling between us, I reminded myself of my goal. My dad. To find out if there was more to his death than what I’d believed in the first place. And Margaret was the key to all that.

I wasn’t here to moon all over my former stepbrother—a man who was better known for his good looks and dating habits than his career.

And still, I didn’t want to get up from the table. Didn’t want to leave his office. Not yet, at least.

“Margaret,” he finally said. He took a bite of his chicken taco and washed it down with a swig of his beer before offering me an explanation. “I’ll have Easton get rid of any firewalls keeping me from you.”

“She blocked you from messaging me?”

“Don’t look so surprised. But, as I said, I’ll have it taken care of.”

I downed a forkful of rice and dabbed at my mouth with a napkin. “Is it that easy? Or does this happen so much, it’s rote now?”

He scoffed. “You’re not back on Isadora, are you?” Before I could deny it, he held up his hand. “Let me put your suspicions to rest one more time. There is nothing between Isadora and myself. She is my friend, she is also married, and if there’s one type of woman I don’t fuck with, it’s the married ones.”

“I—”

“You want to know why I’ve been pursuing you? You’re not married. You’re not in a relationship. Right now, you’re looking at me like you want to rip my shirt off. I’m pursuing you because I’m intrigued with you. And you—you’re intrigued by me.”

“You arrogant son-of-a-bitch. You don’t know any of that about me,” I seethed and started to get up.

He shook his head. “Put your ass back in that seat, Lizzie.” When I thinned my brown eyes into tight slits, he immediately accepted my challenge, glaring back at me until I slowly sank down. “You’re deflecting. I’m right, and you’re immediate reaction is to call me”—he cleared his throat almost dramatically—“an arrogant son-of-a-bitch.”

“You’re not going to deny it?”

“That I’m cocky? Never. And I’m happy to demonstrate,” he said, and a tremor raced through my body. “Are you going to deny wanting me?”

“Yes,” I countered. “I don’t want you.”

“You’re even sexier when you lie.”

“I. Don’t. Want—” My heart slammed in my chest the second he rose to his feet, the table rocking because of the abrupt motion. I automatically stood and took a hasty step back, but that didn’t stop him from stalking over to me. He halted my retreat. One of his large hands pressed firmly against the small of my back, and the other framed my face.

His touch—oh God, his touch was pure electricity.

“What is it you don’t want, Lizzie?” he questioned, the rough pad of his thumb stroking from my high cheekbone to the corner of my mouth, where it moved to trace carefully over my lips. “Go on, lie to me, beautiful.”

I could lie to him all day—the fact I was even standing here with him touching my face, my body, was because of a lie—but if I couldn’t share myself, I could at least share the truth of what I was feeling.

“I don’t want to lose my job,” I corrected, focusing my eyes downward under his intense scrutiny.

“That’s better,” he growled. “Tell me you don’t want to be around me because of your job, or my mother, but don’t lie about wanting me.”

I skimmed my hands up his chest and leaned away from him. “It was very unwise of me to stay today.”

“But you did.” When I didn’t respond, he continued, “I don’t want to dance around the subject, so I’m going to get this out there: The way you looked at me the first time our eyes touched—like you could have fucked me right then and there and not given a damn who saw us—that look has haunted me ever since. Even if it’s only for one night, I plan on getting your beautiful body naked and beneath me. That’s the only way I’ll be able to get you out of my head.”

He wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t dance around the subject. And he was utterly serious—I could feel his heart rate pick up beneath my palm touching his chest.

“I—”

“Are you scared of me?” he demanded.

“A little.” My breathing became a harsh tremble as he stroked the delicate column of my throat, and I dug my fingers into the front of his shirt. “A lot.”

“You shouldn’t be.” He withdrew his arm from my back, pulling his other hand from my throat reluctantly. “There are no strings with me, Lizzie. But for now ... let’s just eat. If I keep touching you, I won’t be able to stop.”

But when lunch was over and I headed back to Emerson & Taylor, feeling dizzy from being in Oliver’s presence for so long, I told myself just how wrong he was when he told me there were no strings when it came to him.

“Which is why I need to hurry the hell up and find some answers,” I told myself firmly, making a beeline for Margaret’s office with an empty USB drive grasped firmly in the palm of my hand. Hopefully, Pen would be able to find something that would help us because the longer I stayed around these people—the more I let myself get involved with Oliver—the more tangled this mess became.