Page 33 of Whatever Lola Wants

“You don’t have to do that,” she began, and bit her tongue to keep from smiling at the thunderous look on his face. “I’m sure I’m out of your way.”

“Oh, you’re definitely out of my way,” he drawled, and she knew he wasn’t talking about the location of her apartment.

“You don’t like detours?” she asked with an innocent flutter of her lashes.

“Not as a rule.” He reached past her to open the door and laid his hand on the small of her back to steer her out. “But it appears I’m making an exception for you.”

Twenty minutes later, she opened the door to her apartment and stepped back to let him enter. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He nodded, hands in his pockets, and looked around. The space was configured into one large living area, airy and open, the furniture arrangement defining the spaces. The kitchen sat at the near end, with stainless steel appliances and sleek white counters. She strode to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water, holding it up with a question in her eyes.

“No, thanks,” he told her, and turned to look at the rest of the room.

The living area held a sofa in bright red leather facing a large screen television on the wall. Comfortable looking chairs piled high with pillows flanked the sofa, and a coffee table that bore what looked like the scuff marks of many shoes sat in center. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books and what his mother would call dust catchers—little statues and figures, framed photographs and small mirrors.

The floors were a dark, warm hardwood, covered here and there with area rugs in bright colors and patterns. Art hung on the walls, modern abstract sharing space with prints of old masters. The effect should’ve been jarring, but instead it was vibrant, interesting, and somehow soothing.

“Nice place.”

Lola poured herself a glass of water and leaned against the counter. “Thanks.”

She was so tiny. “How tall are you?”

If she thought the question unusual, she didn’t comment. Merely sipped her water and watched him over the rim of her glass. “Five feet, two inches.”

He snorted, and her lips gave a little twitch. “Okay, five feet one and two-thirds inches.”

“Little,” he commented. “Fierce.”

“I have a t-shirt that says that,” she commented, and he chuckled. Of course she did.

“You need better security.”

Her brows shot up at that. “Excuse me?”

He nodded toward the front door, which she’d unlocked with a single key and had no alarm. “You need an alarm system. And a deadbolt that works on a separate key from the door lock. And a chain,” he growled, realizing she didn’t even have that. He scowled at her. “What’s the matter with you?”

“You mean besides whatever brain spasm led me to bring you here?” She smirked as his scowl deepened. “It’s a secure building, Simon.”

“A doorman does not make it secure.”

She sighed. “The elevators are restricted access. Didn’t you see me use my key fob to access this floor?”

He had, and while he approved, he was far from mollified. “Is the garage secure at least?”

She shrugged. “I think so.”

“You think so? My car is parked down there.”

She rolled her eyes and set her glass aside. “I don’t have a car, so I never go down there. You can ask Chet on the way out.”

“Chet?”

“The doorman.”

He snorted. Chet. Yeah, Chet was keeping the place secure.

She walked toward him, looking amused, stopping with her toes just inches away from his sneakers. Her bare toes, he realized. She must’ve kicked her shoes off in the kitchen. Cute little toes that were painted the same bright red as her fingernails, the same bright red as her lips.

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