Even though I didn’t want to, I had to admit, I missed my fix.

“That’s cool. I’ll bring sandwiches to your office.”

I stared at my desk blotter.

Why did I think I might get away with a valid excuse?

“Hop, seriously. It’s nuts around here.”

“Lanie, seriously, with your work, my kids and your parents here this weekend, my time seein’ you is curtailed in a way I don’t like a whole fuckin’ lot so I’ll bring sandwiches, you work, I’ll see you and it’ll all be good.”

“You’re distracting,” I snapped and this was met with silence. When that lengthened, I called, “Hop?”

“Nicest thing you’ve said to me,” he answered, a smile in his voice I felt in the region of my heart. “When I’m not fuckin’ you, that is,” he amended. “And outside you askin’ me if I wanted to fuck you and all the shit you said with that the first time you asked me to fuck you,” he went on.

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling.

“Right. Leavin’ you to get back to work after you tell me what kind of sandwich you like,” he stated.

I rolled my eyes to my computer. “This conversation could go on for four hours and you’d still be here with sandwiches at noon tomorrow, wouldn’t you?”

“Yep,” he replied, another smile in his voice.

Ty-Ty was not wrong. These boys rolled right on through even if you didn’t want them to. How I found this both irritating and attractive, I had no idea. I didn’t process that, either, except the irritating part.

“You do realize that’s kind of a jerky thing to do when you know I don’t have time to fight with you,” I pointed out.

“Yep,” he replied, still with a smile in his voice, which also meant no remorse.

“You don’t care, do you?” I asked to confirm his lack of remorse.

“Means I have lunch with you, look in your eyes, hear your voice, check you’re okay.” He paused then, “Nope.”

I sighed, liking that he wanted to look in my eyes, hear my voice, check I was okay.

God.

There it was. The reason I found his macho stubborn streak attractive.

“I like pastrami,” I told him.

“Got it,” he replied.

“And turkey. Or roast beef but only if it’s rare and only with swiss on it. Provolone if it’s pastrami. I also like Reubens but you need to tell them to go light on the sauerkraut if you take that route. I don’t like meatballs or anything that could be messy and get on my clothes, except for a Reuben, that is. No onions. My staff would be forced to smell them all day and that’s not nice. Chips, plain, nothing that could stain my fingers—like cheese puffs—or flamin’ hot. And a cookie or brownie wouldn’t go amiss.”

I stopped talking and was met with silence.

“Hop?” I called again.

“Anything else, beautiful?”

No smile in his voice. It was vibrating with suppressed laughter.

It sounded really nice.

So nice, I didn’t have it in me to do more than whisper, “No. I think that’s it.”

“All right, see you at noon tomorrow.”

“Right, Hop. Have fun with your kids tonight.”

“Always do,” he muttered. “Later, baby.”

“Bye, Hop.”

He disconnected and I put my phone on my desk at the same time it occurred to me my staff was going to see a rough, badass, albeit hot, biker walk in and have lunch with me in my office.

With ease, I shoved this from my mind.

This, I didn’t care about. Everyone had wondered why I was with Elliott, too, and I hadn’t cared about that either. I had my way of doing things. I had my baggage. I had my issues. I had my demons. But I had few pet peeves, though one of them was anyone judging a book by its cover or judging anything at all, including anyone who might judge me or my decisions.

No, I had enough head space taken up by judging myself and my decisions. I didn’t need to give more over to what anyone else thought of me.

So I didn’t.

Wednesday rolled around and the pitch was in disarray. I knew I was facing another ten o’clock night but when I felt the vibe of the office change—this wafting through my wall of windows—my eyes went there.

I saw Hop striding toward me, smiling, carrying a white paper bag held in the crook of one arm, bags of chips visible out of the top and a six-pack of diet cherry 7Up in his other hand.

At the sight, the pitch, the client, my staff, and everything else flew from my mind.

I had lost myself in work for two and a half days so it was easy (sort of) not to think of Hop except when I was in bed, trying to fall asleep and missing doing it with him and waking up in his arms.

Him there in my office—walking toward me, bringing me lunch, being hot, smiling a smile that was sexy and all for me—he was the only thing on my mind.

He was the only thing in the universe.

He hit my open door and, eyes never leaving me, greeted, “Hey, babe.”

He kicked the glass door with his boot. As it swung closed I replied unconsciously, “Hey, honey.”

His eyes and smile got warmer. He walked through the office and dumped the stuff on my desk.

“I have a stash of 7Up,” I informed him.

“Now you have a bigger stash,” he informed me.

Okay, damn.

I had to admit it.

He was getting to me.

Hop unpacked the sandwiches, handing me mine and a bag of plain Ruffles, yanking a cold 7Up off the plastic and setting it on my black desk blotter. Then he sat with his food as he had with his Chinese, feet up on the desk, open bag of Doritos in his lap, sandwich held close to his face, a 7Up at the edge of my desk.

“Pastrami,” he muttered. “Provolone. Had them grill it and hold the mustard. Nothin’ should mar that blouse, lady.” He dipped his head to my blouse, his lips curved up with appreciation. “There’s packets in the bag if you wanna go wild.”

I reached for the bag thinking, yes, he was getting to me.

I mean, everyone knew you had mustard on pastrami but very few would think to hold it in case you were willing to make the sacrifice because you were wearing a nice blouse.

Thoughtful.

Sweet.

I also was thinking we never had this, sitting, eating, everything normal, no fighting, Hop not saving me from the unwanted advances of a monster truck owner, us not having sex or about to have sex or in the aftermath of sex.

I claimed some mustard packets, opened up my sandwich and was squirting mustard on, looking for topics of conversation.

Eventually, I found one.

“How are the kids?”

“Good,” he said through a mouth full of sandwich. He chewed, swallowed, and smiled at me. “Lookin’ forward to Vail this weekend. Found a rental. They’re psyched.”

“Right,” I muttered, closing my sandwich, picking it up, and taking a bite.

Delicious. I didn’t know where he got it but I was going to find out.

“You prepared?” he asked and his tone of voice made me look to him.

I chewed, swallowed, and asked, “Prepared for what?”

“The weekend,” he answered.

“I’m never prepared, Hop,” I told him honestly and took another bite.

“Got two days, Lanie,” he said softly. “Train your mind to think you’re gonna be in God’s country, at the foot of mountains in a spot that’s one of the most beautiful places in the world. Away from this.” He threw out a hand to indicate the office. “What you’re facing sucks. Where you’re gonna face it doesn’t. Try to think of that.”

This was actually a good strategy and I couldn’t stop myself from giving him a small smile.

“I’ll train my mind, Hopper.”

“Good, baby,” he muttered, his face soft and God, God.

He was definitely getting to me.

I looked back to my sandwich, took a bite and chewed while I put it down and reached for my chips.

I swallowed my bite.

“So, what’s the deal with their mom?”

Yes, this came out of my mouth.

“Say again?”

That came out of Hop’s.

My eyes went to him and my mouth backtracked. “Sorry, not my business.”

“I asked,” Hop stated slowly. “Say again?”

“I really—”

“Babe, if you mean Mitzi, it is your business. You mean Mitzi?”

I stared at him.

Was he seriously, openly, without hesitation, going to talk about his ex?

“Well, yeah. I meant Mitzi, but I shouldn’t have asked. It isn’t my business.”

“Fuckin’ you, intend to keep fuckin’ you, want to know more about you, pleased as fuck you asked about me, so it is your business. To answer your question, the deal with Mitzi is, she’s a fuckin’ bitch.”

I blinked.

“No, a cunt,” he amended casually and my chest depressed.

“That isn’t very nice,” I told him.

“Nope. But it’s true,” he told me.

“Women don’t like that word, Hop,” I educated.

“Then women shouldn’t act like cunts,” he returned.

I didn’t like that.

Maybe he wasn’t getting to me.

“That’s unbelievably harsh,” I said softly.

He took his boots off my desk, dumped his bag of chips and sandwich on the desk, and leaned toward me, wrists to the desk, giving me all his attention.

“She is not a good woman, Lanie. Always on my ass when we were together, tough as hide, hard as nails. Don’t speak to her and, if I can help it, don’t look at her. I hate her.”

“That’s harsh…” I hesitated than finished with emphasis, “er.”

“Yep, but it’s also true.”

“Wow, Hop. I don’t know what to say,” I replied.

“Nothin’ to say. I do not not like her. I hate her. Can’t stand the sight of her.”

This was not good.

“How does that, um… affect your kids?” I asked cautiously.