Page 20 of Toy Shop

“We’re good to go, then?” Jeremiah inquires.

“Hold it.” Rhodes closes the distance between us, hugging me. “Text me in three hours or I’m coming over, guns blazing.”

I kiss his cheek and leave a red mark there. “Love you.”

“To infinity and then some.” He walks back, directing his attention to Jeremiah to do the silent threat of I’m watching you gesture using his index and middle finger.

Appeased by the security Rhodes lends me, I step into the car. The cool leather seat smells new, the console and wheel in the front sparkle like it was bought yesterday, or could be Jeremiah spent the entire day cleaning it.

I don’t ask and he says nothing else, and without another word, we’re off. Jeremiah cruises out of the neighborhood to the I-5 Express, then to pass the Portage Bay Viaduct Bridge.

The water gleams below us with reflections of the city’s buildings and the full moon in the sky in the magical light reserved only for these hours.

We cruise into Medina, passing along many well-kept houses, a golf club, and Medina Park. A lot of thought has been put into this, the wealth practically pouring out of the streets, architecture, even the pavement.

Somehow, though, none of it deters me. The number one has in their bank account is exactly that—a number. Alistair hasn’t been condescending to the degree I haven’t even realized how wealthy he is until I researched him.

It’s miles away from my little, modest, and wonderful dreams, though it shouldn’t matter and I shouldn’t be judging. Mom taught me way better than that.

“We’re here,” Jeremiah announces. The car cruises onto a long gravel road.

A variety of tall trees grow from both sides, with no other houses in sight. I’m about to ask him if he’d gotten lost, until an orange light shines in the distance, growing as we approach the entry.

Jeremiah pulls to a full stop in front of large, dark-gray stones leading up to what must be Alistair’s home. If I can even call it that. In the middle of nowhere sits a massive contemporary-styled house, constructed by boxes in uneven angles, concrete and floor-to-ceiling windows.

The porch’s lawns blend into the outside park, giving it a feel like there is no real beginning or end to it. Warm, golden illumination trickles from the inside, and soft tunes of Bill Withers’s Ain’t No Sunshine reach my ears when Jeremiah holds the door for me.

The whole scenario is a lot, yet it isn’t. There’s a sense of coziness I can’t put my finger on, kind of like the man who lives in it. Makes sense he lives here.

“Miss Vickers?” Jeremiah holds out his hand, which I accept, unfolding myself out of the car.

“Thank you.” Releasing his gentle, professional touch, I straighten my clothes, tamping down the jitters by gazing at the bag instead of focusing on the path ahead. After a brief second, I suck in air, plaster a smile, and hold my head up high.

“What am I supposed to do n—” I stop mid-sentence, noticing the broad, handsome man appearing in the doorway.

Alistair steps out the front, tall and handsome. He wears a loose-fitting dove-gray Henley, charcoal gray linen slacks, and black leather sandals. Elegantly, he strides in our direction, his short hair untamed by products, and his smile is easier than the troubles-ahead smirk.

It’s almost as if he wants to make me feel at home and not planning to ram a large cock-sized vibrator into me.

Curious. Very, very curious.

“Evening, Jeremiah. Thank you for driving Nola.”

“Sir.” He tops his hat off to him, gets into the car, and rolls out back to where we came from.

“Nola.” My name when he addresses me is a calling, rolling off his tongue like silk and leather combined.

“Alistair.” I stick to my smile, my fake it ’till you make it strategy. I’m a fish out of water, navigating to the best of my abilities to prevent it from showing. Again.

“Let me carry that for you.” He flips his palm to face up, reaching for the bag.

“Thank you.” I hand it over to him, not because I’m incapable. The simple math boils down to time wasted arguing is time that isn’t spent touching. The decision practically makes itself for me.

We climb on the stones, past the porch, and through the door. The foyer of the house is vast, the rest of it equally expansive and expensive. The high-ceiling and cream-colored furniture and wall-to-wall carpet lend the place the illusion it’s even larger than it is, without being intimidating. It’s equally homey as the outside suggested. Nothing too modern or fragile-looking. Cozy.

“How was the ride over?” He leads me up a short three-step staircase and into his living room. We reach an off-white L-shaped couch overlooking Washington Lake and Seattle. The tiny lights gleam in the distance, where our mini-tour reaches its end.

“It was ni—” I catch myself, huffing a nervous laugh. “It was great.”

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