Page 112 of The Playboy

“Where’s here?”

“My house … where you’ll be staying tonight.”

“Are you asking? Or telling?”

“You know how badly I want to tell you,” I growled. “But instead, I’m going to ask.” I paused to take a breath. “Brooklyn, would you like to sleep over tonight? I’ll even bring my tongue …”

“Mmm. That tongue.” She smiled. “But what about my things? They’re at the hotel.”

“I had a hunch that you weren’t going to fight me on sleeping at my place, so I went and picked them up while you were at your interview.” I nodded toward the trunk. “Your suitcase and carry-on are back there.”

I hadn’t been sure how she’d feel about me going into her room while she wasn’t there. I took the chance anyway. I hadn’t wanted to waste time driving back to the hotel for her to pack up her things. The timing would have messed with everything I had planned.

“And if I did fight you on it?”

“I’d drop you off at the hotel. Your room is still available. I didn’t check you out.”

She reached inside the bag that was on the other side of her and placed something on my lap. “You can check me out.”

I looked down to see what it was, and the key card sat on my thigh.

“I won’t need that room anymore.”

When I glanced back up, I kissed her, harder this time, and I heard the driver get out of the front seat. He came around to my side and opened the door.

As I pulled back, I whispered, “Let’s get you inside.”

I climbed out of the SUV and held my hand in her direction, waiting for her to clasp her fingers around it so I could help her onto the ground. Once we reached the front door, I entered my code and brought her into the house.

“Wow.” She was only in the foyer, staring past the long, wide hallway that led to the living room and the wall of glass that showed the Hills—a view that had sold me on this property. “Macon …” She gazed up at the thirty-foot ceiling and toward the open kitchen and my office—a floor plan that allowed her to see it all from here—until she eventually locked eyes with me. “This is … stunning.”

The driver set her things by my front door, where my housekeeper met him and wheeled the bags toward the primary wing.

“I’m glad you like it.”

She stayed frozen in the same spot, appearing to take it all in. “And you have a chef too?” Her eyes widened. “Is that normal for you?”

Klark had been in there for hours, working his ass off on the menu I’d created when I knew Brooklyn was flying to LA and I was joining her.

I laughed. “Pretty normal.” I walked her into the kitchen. “Klark, meet Brooklyn.”

He wiped his hands on his apron before shaking hers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you,” she replied.

“Klark works for my brothers and me. But Jo and Jenner have their own chef, who has worked for the Daltons for years. During holidays, which we take turns hosting, it becomes chef wars over who’s the better cook.”

“And I always win,” Klark shot back.

I nodded. “By a landslide.” I clasped my hand on Klark’s shoulder. “You’ll see his talents soon. He’s preparing us dinner.”

“Seriously?”

The amazement was so obvious on her face that Klark and I both laughed.

“And I was given firm instructions that I needed to come up with a dessert that was coffee-flavored.”

Brooklyn looked at me. “You remembered …”

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