Page 97 of Sweet Temptation

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re a man,” she pointed out.

“Now that’s sexist.”

“Yet true.”

I cleared my throat. “Not all men think with their…”

“Dicks?” she supplied.

I said nothing.

“Did you seriously stop talking before you said the word dicks?”

“Do I need to answer that?” Unfortunately, I had a feeling she wasn’t gonna let this conversation drop. I wasn’t sure how to get out of it, because silence didn’t work with this woman.

It just egged her on.

“I don’t understand what just happened,” she said. “Did you just censor the word dick?”

“I was trying to be polite.”

“Why? You think I haven’t heard the word dick before? Dick, dick, dick.” She shook her head as she drove. “I’m disappointed in you, Ronan. Maybe you really haven’t put much research into my social circle after all…”

“You’re my client,” I reminded her.

“So you can’t say dick in front of me?”

“I was being respectful.”

She looked at me a few times as she drove, while I tried not to look at her. “Where do you come from? I don’t know men like you.”

“I guess you do now.”

“Hmm.”

“Maybe you could turn up the music,” I suggested.

She laughed and turned it up.

Not even a full song later, we reached our destination. It was an industrial building just off Venables Street in Strathcona, where there were a lot of artists’ studios. I happened to know that Xander Rush rented a studio in this neighborhood where he kept his drums.

Summer found us a parking spot on the street out front and made a call.

“We’re here!” she sang into the phone. “Okay, love.”

By the time we reached the door, a man opened it from inside, letting us into the building.

I recognized him from his photos. The neon-orange hair was hard to forget. Especially when it was on an incredibly fit black man who wore skintight clothing, including midriff baring shirts. He’d been wearing one in almost every photo I found when I looked him up online, and he was wearing one now—lime-green mesh—that barely covered his pierced nipples.

Actually, it didn’t really cover them at all.

His professional name was “Devoid.” He was a local fashion designer who custom-made some of Summer’s stage clothes. She’d told me she had a lot to replace since some of hers had been stolen, but I’d seen the walk-in closet in her bedroom, the extra wardrobe cases in her basement. From where I was looking, the woman had enough clothes to outfit the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders in hot club wear for the next decade or so. But hey, I was a dude.

And apparently, a lot less versed in fashion than some other dudes.

I scoped out Devoid as he and Summer greeted one another with hugs, kisses and what I could only describe as squeals. Then I turned my attention to the wide hallway beyond and the staircase leading up. The building was locked, and there was a security cam on the entrance.

---