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.”

“Then it’s good we’re just gonna watch TV. And when I fuck you later, you’re golden. I’ll do all the work.”

That got me another shiver even as I felt my palms start to itch.

God! He had an answer for everything.

I didn’t know what to do. I had not one idea how to get him to leave me be. What I did have an idea about was that I refused to consider the fact that I didn’t want him to let me be.

It was then I decided I should eat. Brain food. If I had Imperial kung pao shrimp, I was certain my mental juices would start flowing and something would come to me.

Putting this plan into action, but deciding to do it with extreme ill-grace, I stomped around my desk in order to get to my food.

Unfortunately, Hop felt like providing a commentary as I did this and, equally unfortunately, I liked what he said or, more accurately, muttered.

“Christ, a Saturday, alone in an office for hours. Still she looks fuckin’ spectacular.”

I drew in a deep breath, sat in my chair, successfully ignored how his words affected me and glared at him.

Another thing my mother ingrained in me, which was incidentally one of the few things, like knowing how to cook, that she taught me that I liked, was that I never should look bad.

Even if I was dinking around at home, I didn’t do it in ratty sweats and old t-shirts. I might not do full-on makeup, perfume and overly styled hair, but I was never, not ever, a slob. I had knockabout clothes but they were fashionable loungewear like comfortable yoga pants, hoodies, wraps and stylishly cut tees.

If I was going to step foot out of my house, although on occasion my loungewear worked, normally I ratcheted up the effort.

Like today. I had on a pair of bootcut jeans that I knew did miracles for my ass, which wasn’t, like Ty-Ty’s, something to write home about. Purple leather platform, spike-heeled booties that skimmed the bottom of my ankle and had a saucy, silver zip at the side (these also did miracles for my ass). And a thin weave, soft wool, silvery sweater that was slightly see-through, showing my lilac cami underneath, and it had an intriguing drapey neckline that was close to my neck on one side but went wide on the other, exposing goodly amounts of shoulder and half my collarbone.

I was reconsidering this life rule and making plans to troll Goodwill stores for stained, used sweatpants and sweatshirts, trying to contain the queasiness this thought was giving me as I opened up my food and the scent of sublime Imperial kung pao shrimp hit my nostrils.

Heaven in a Chinese food container.

I totally forgot about my Goodwill plans and snatched up the chopsticks. When my cell on my desk rang, I was so distracted by my watering mouth and a mind way too filled with garbage that I stupidly picked it up, hit the button, and put it to my ear. I did this, one, without reading the display and two, without thinking about the fact that Hop was sitting right across from me.

“Hello,” I greeted.

“Lanie, darling! Guess what?”

Mom.

Mom sounding excited, which was never good. You’d think it would be but it never, ever was.

Mom on my phone with me in my office with Imperial kung pao shrimp, one of my drugs of choice, and Hopper Kincaid, another one, Hop being the drug that was harder to beat.

Why me?

My eyes went to Hop to find his eyes curious and warm on me.

He had great eyes.

Gah!

Everything that was happening crashing over me, my forehead went to the edge of my desk, where I pounded it repeatedly.

“Lanie?” Mom called into my ear.

“Babe, Jesus, stop doin’ that,” Hop called across my desk.

Silence from Mom but as for me, my entire body went still, which fortunately meant I quit banging my head on my desk.

“Lanie, baby girl, are you with a man?” Mom asked, sounding breathy, which meant even more excited.

Damn!

I started banging my forehead on my desk again.

“Lanie, seriously, stop fuckin’ doin’ that,” Hop ordered, closer, like he was leaning across my desk, and also sharper, kind of like a gentle bark.

“Oh my goodness, Lanie! Are you there? What’s going on? Why aren’t you speaking? Are you out on a date?” Mom asked, and I shot up to sitting in my chair.

When I did, I saw Hop did not have his feet on my desk. He was out of his chair, leaned across the desk toward me. His food container was set aside, one of his rough, callused, beautiful, strong, intensely masculine hands planted in the middle of my desk. His eyes were intent on me.

“Lanie! Are you there?” Mom called, beginning to sound panicked.

“I’m here, Mom, and I’m not out on a date,” I finally replied.

Hop held my eyes.

Mom said nothing for a few moments, then, “All right, then who’s that man I hear?”

“No one,” I told her.

Quiet from Mom again until, “Uh, whoever that no one is, he has a nice voice.”

He did. It was deep, slightly rough, mostly smooth, and this might sound impossible but it absolutely wasn’t. It could get rougher or smoother, depending. For instance, it got smoother when he was doing something to me. It got rougher when I was doing something to him.

“Though,” she continued, luckily breaking me out of these heated thoughts, “it’s rude to use the f-word. If he’s an acquaintance of yours, you should find a quiet moment to tell him that.”

Argh.

I pulled in breath, tearing my eyes from Hop’s, I turned slightly in my chair and said, “Listen, Mom, I’m at work, getting a few things sorted. My mind was occupied when I picked up. Sorry. What’s up?”

“Oh, okay, darling,” she murmured then, back to excitement, “Guess what?”

I didn’t want to guess because I knew whatever “what” was was not going to be good for me.

With no choice I asked, “What?”

Mom didn’t make me work for it. She never did. She didn’t have patience for that kind of thing. If she was hepped up about something, she let it rip.

Something else, alas, she’d given to me.

“Your Dad and I are coming out next weekend!” she cried with glee.

Oh God.

Oh no.

Oh hell.

Damn!

This was not happening!

Thinking quickly and thus stupidly, I rushed out, “You can’t do that. I’m having my house fumigated next weekend.”

“Oh my Lord!” Mom exclaimed in horror. “Do you have an infestation?”

No, I did not. In fact, I wasn’t even certain what fumigation was since I’d never had to have it done so, in desperation, I turned to my computer, grabbed the mouse and hit the icon to load Explorer in order to look it up.

“Uh…” I mumbled, stalling for time, trying to ignore the feel of Hop’s eyes on me. I knew he’d moved away and sat back down but I refused to look at him as I tapped frantically on my keyboard.

“That’s terrible, darling,” Mom’s voice came in my ear. “Hold on, let me talk to your father. We’ll come up with something.”

That was what I was afraid of as I quickly read that yes, indeed, fumigation was a means of controlling pests.

Ugh.

Well, the good news was, this wasn’t a total lie considering, if Hop didn’t leave me alone by next weekend, I would need a fumigation. But I didn’t think there were companies that had chemicals that could keep handsome badass bikers at bay.

I sat back in defeat in my chair, avoiding Hop’s gaze by turning mine to the ceiling.