The goateed man closes the distance in seconds, his gray eyes swinging to me right away. “What can I get you, Ms. Carmichael?”

  Callum rests an elbow on the bar. “She’ll have a Long-Distance Lover,” he tells the man, but looks at me. My God, the word lover on Callum’s lips is inviting. He says it like I’m what he wants to drink.

  Or maybe my dirty imagination is running away with me again.

  Wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Anything for you?”

  “Make it an iced tea,” Callum says.

  “Coming right up, sir,” the goateed gentleman says, then tosses a smile my way. “Good to see you, Ms. Carmichael. This will be the best Long-Distance Lover you’ve ever had.”

  I flash him a cheery grin. “I have no doubt, Henry,” I say.

  The bartender’s eyes light up, clearly delighted I know his name. Well, name tags do help.

  The man turns to mix the drink while Callum and I grab a quiet booth in the corner, with two walls surrounding it. That’s Callum’s MO. He doesn’t leave me in the open. That’s how the stalker got close to me a year ago. Too close for my comfort, saying things about my family, my parents, as if my parents had told him about me. I shudder at the memory of that terrible night, but I’m grateful he hasn’t stepped foot in here since.

  “So, what’s on tap for you tonight after you clock out? Must be a late night, since you leveled up to iced tea.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m getting ready to party.”

  I laugh, since that’s not his style at all. “And by ‘party’ I presume you mean going to the boxing gym? The gun range? A Krav Maga class?” I ask, teasing but not quite. He’s devoted to keeping up all his necessary job skills.

  Callum glances at his watch again. “Actually, I’m seeing a friend.”

  Friend? A wild wave of jealousy roils through me. Is Callum involved with someone? Does he go home to a woman at night? How did I not know this? He knows nearly everything about me, and now I’m just learning he has a friend.

  “A friend?” I ask, and it comes out strangled.

  His lips quirk. There’s that grin. That naughty, cocky grin. He moves the slightest bit closer. “A buddy. From years ago.”

  I breathe out, visibly relieved. “Good,” I say, before I’m aware that word slipped from my lips.

  He lifts a brow. “Why is that good?”

  I try to make light of my gaffe, but making light turns into flirting. “It means I get to command all your attention.”

  His eyes twinkle with mischief. “You already do, Ivy.”

  The bartender brings over my drink and Callum’s iced tea, and I thank Henry, then take a sip, savoring the gin and lemonade. “This is terrific. A little sweet, but with a little kick.”

  “Sounds like you,” Callum says, and he’s definitely being flirty too.

  Maybe something is in the air tonight.

  “So, why’d you pick the Long-Distance Lover for me?” I ask, then I’m momentarily distracted by the scene a few booths over.

  A gorgeous redhead in a slinky emerald dress is flanked by two men.

  One has his hand in her hair, stroking her locks. The other sets a hand on her leg.

  “Supposedly, it tastes good on your lips,” Callum says and the innuendo in those flirty, potentially dirty words settles like sex on my skin as I continue staring at the trio.

  Shamelessly.

  I should stop looking.

  They’re my customers, and staring isn’t nice.

  But staring is oh so nice.

  Oh so sexy.

  Because there she is, enjoying herself in public, letting herself feel adored by two strong men who look enrapt with her.

  His words register, and I shift in my seat and tear my gaze away for a split second. “Oh, really?” I ask playfully, smiling at him, this moment made stronger because of the company I’m keeping, this man beside me who makes me feel everything. And I can’t help myself. I need another look.

  She’s . . . the center of attention. Her eyes flutter closed. One man whispers in her ear.

  I swallow, my mind awash in a fresh reel of images, picturing the things they do to her, the ways they get off to her, for her, on her.

  I try to shove the images aside, but ignoring them is too hard. I take another drink.

  “I guess you like your drink,” Callum says, a knowing tone in his voice.

  I lock eyes with him. “I like it so much.”

  Even to my own ears, I sound like I’m in a hazy trance.

  I feel like I am.

  And I think my bodyguard knows.

  I think, too, that he likes it.

  And I have to wonder if he’ll like all my other kinks. Or if I’ll have to continue keeping them to myself.

  3

  Callum

  As Ivy takes a sip of the Long-Distance Lover, I catalog her every move.

  The way her lips touch the glass, how she takes a slow and steady swallow, then the delicate tracing of her finger across her mouth when she’s done.

  It’s a subtle move, almost like she’s swiping away a drop of gin from her lower lip.

  But that’s not what she’s doing.

  She’s watching that booth. Watching and maybe, just maybe, wondering.

  What that woman feels like. What it would be like if Ivy herself were kissed in public. Kissed by one man. Kissed by two.

  She’s not watching purely out of curiosity.

  The way her legs are squeezing together under the table tells me everything.

  She’s interested for real. And that interests me.

  Everything about her preferences interests me.

  More than it should, but so it goes.

  It’s my job to protect her, but it’s also a privilege, because in the last year, she’s become more than a critical job, so much more than a top assignment.

  She’s become a friend. She treats me with respect, and I damn well do the same to her in return.

  Sure, I might want her more than I’ve ever wanted any woman in my whole damn life, but I care about her too much to make a move simply because my body tells me she’d be magic to touch, that she’d fit extraordinarily well beneath me, that we’d set the sheets on fire.

  I know we’d be like that in bed because of how we are out of bed. Because of the way we tease, the way we speak our minds, how we’ve come to trust each other.

  But in the year of this work-relationship-turned-work-friendship, I’ve never known her to take a man home to her suite, much less ask someone else to join them.

  That’s why I’m more surprised than anything else to see her enrapt by this throuple, like it’s something she wants too.

  But I can’t simply say, Hey, Ivy, what do you think of that table?

  We need a distraction. So, I do what we do best. I have a few more minutes before I’m meeting my buddy Stone, so I engage her in conversation, returning to a topic she brought up on her tour. “You mentioned that you had some plans in mind to make a splash. Anything you care to tell me? Or is that, like so many other things . . . top secret?”

  As I take a drink of my iced tea, she peels her gaze away from the trio once more and back to me. “Callum,” she says, chiding. “I don’t keep secrets from you.”

  I scoff. We both know that’s a lie. She’s the boss. She has to keep secrets.

  “You don’t?” I say, egging her on.

  “Well, not like that,” she says, then takes a breath, running her finger along the edge of the glass. “So, this is what I have planned. I’ve managed to book a few special one-night-only concerts. To bring in a new wave of guests to the casino,” she says, then rattles off names of performers, from Jane Black, who won a Grammy for an epic breakup album, to the Heartbreakers, who recently reunited after more than a decade apart.

  “Those are great choices,” I say, impressed.

  “Are they, Mr. I Follow Music?” There’s a sexy look in her eyes as she gives me some sassy attitude. But then, I’m pretty sure she always has a sexy look in her eyes, because the woman exudes sex appeal. She’s a goddess. She’s Venus. A Botticelli—a fitting description, with those long blonde waves and bright blue eyes of hers.

  And legs I’d like to feel wrapped around me.

  “They’re great,” I say. “And I love that idea. And yes, I mean it. I’m being honest with you, like you asked.”

  She arches a skeptical brow. “No teasing?”

  “None whatsoever.” I draw a breath, turning over her remarks in my head, then meeting her eyes once more. “But the thing is . . . it doesn’t sound like they’re quite what you want. Don’t get me wrong. They’re great choices. But I hear longing in your voice. Like you want more.”

  She hums briefly. “You know me so well,” she says, her gaze once again drifting over to the redhead.

  A small gasp escapes her lips when one of the men kisses the woman’s cheek, and Ivy jerks her gaze back to me.

  “Do I though? Know you so well?” I ask. “You seem distracted.”

  “I’m fine.” She swallows then takes a breath, almost like she’s pushing away whatever distracting thoughts are in her head. “And you do know me well. Yes, I am longing for something more. I want to land a bigger fish. Something that people will be talking about for years after. Something like Gaga bringing Bradley on stage, or a much-publicized reunion show, or . . .”

  My lips quirk up. I have just the ace up my sleeve. “Or Stone.”

  She blinks, her blue eyes widening. “Stone . . . as in Stone? Stone with the silver Stratocaster and the wild hair that looks like he just rolled out of bed? The ink across his arms? Stone, notorious-for-his-epic-love-life Stone?”

  I jerk back. “Whoa. Does someone have a crush on Stone?”

  “Only half of America.”

  She’s not wrong. My good friend from back in the day is pretty much the definition of sex symbol, with his indie-rock style of music, his broody green eyes, and his voice that seems to drive everyone wild. Add in the album he released a few years ago and the face that’s been on tons of magazines, and yes, millions have a crush on him.

  I nod. “Stone.”

  “One-name-only Stone?” she asks, repeating, like she has to make certain who we’re discussing.

  I laugh. “That’s the one. Though he has a last name.”

  “Do you know it?” Her tone is dripping with curiosity. “No one knows Stone’s last name.”

  I shrug, smiling. “I do.”

  She grabs my arm. “Spill, Callum. Spill.”

  I crack up. “Your nails are digging into me, woman.”

  She growls like a cat. “Don’t try to pretend I’m hurting you. You know I’m not. But you’re hurting me now, since you know Stone and never told me.”

  I shrug, loving this little game. “Grew up with him. We’ve been friends since way back when.”

  “You and Stone on the mean streets of San Francisco?”

  “We didn’t live in Cow Hollow or Pacific Heights growing up. We were in the Mission, making ends meet. I had to look out for him.”

  “How’d you look out for him?” Her eyes widen in question, but his secrets aren’t mine to share. His childhood was rough. His dad was a closed-off, small-minded asshole who didn’t understand, or even try to understand, the artistic soul inside him. One of the many reasons he dropped his surname, and changed his first name.

  “I’m a couple inches taller. A little broader. And I didn’t study music. Kids were assholes, so I looked out for my friend.”

  “That’s sweet. You’ve always been a protector,” she says, and there’s a momentary lull in the conversation when the redhead and her guys stand and leave. Ivy watches them for a few seconds, then pulls her gaze back to me. “But you never told me you were friends with him. You’re in trouble.”

  I laugh. “It never came up.” I look at my watch again. “He’s in town for a family thing. I’m seeing him tonight. Meeting him at a bar off the Strip.”

  Her eyes pop this time, and she sputters, “He’s the buddy you’re having drinks with?”

  “He is indeed.”

  She draws an excited breath, then brings her hand to her mouth and whispers reverently, “Rumor is he’s almost done with his new album. But he’s so notorious for his personal life that sometimes people forget he hasn’t actually put out new music in a couple years. I would kill to have him onstage for our kickoff concert.” She takes a beat, her lips curving up in a grin. “But you have to know a guy to get a guy like him . . .” She drags her finger across the table, her eyes twinkling. “And do I know a guy, Callum?”

  “Ivy Carmichael, are you saying you want to have drinks with Stone and me?”

  She tries to school her expression, maybe to momentarily hide her excitement as her eyes spark with possibility. “Callum Blackwell, are you saying you’re going to introduce me to Stone tonight?”

  I lean back in the booth, tempted, so tempted to slide an arm around her, to loop my hands through her hair. Instead, I keep things on the level. “I’m saying that Stone and I grew up together and I’m supposed to be meeting him after I get you upstairs to your suite. But maybe I could text him to meet us here for an introduction first?”

  She lets out an excited breath. “I could kiss you.”

  Just like that, all my thoughts return to kissing her. To the way I want to kiss her. To how I want her to melt under my touch, to succumb to my lips. I want to know how she tastes, feel the way she moves, discover who she is behind closed doors.

  Because I have a feeling . . .

  Trouble is, all these feelings might take over my sense of right and wrong, my duty to look out for her—and that is my priority. It has to be.

  I try to erase the look of hunger I know is in my eyes right now as I text my longtime friend.

  * * *

  Callum: I’m at Speakeasy. I’m with Ivy Carmichael, and she wants to meet you. Yes, she owns this hotel.

  * * *

  His reply is immediate.

  * * *

  Stone: I love meeting new people. Especially women you have a thing for.

  * * *

  Callum: Did I say I had a thing for her?

  * * *

  Stone: Let’s call it a lucky guess. And since you just sidestepped but didn’t deny it, I’m right.

  * * *

  Callum: Asshole.

  * * *

  Stone: Back atcha. See you soon.

  * * *

  I set my phone down. “He says he’s looking forward to it.”

  She smirks. “That’s a lot of texts for a few words, Callum,” she says, and this time my name sounds like an invitation on her tongue. I’d like to RSVP with a hot, wet kiss.

  But I focus on business, on helping Ivy. Because if I can help her arrange a show with Stone, it’ll help her with the new marketing campaign she has planned.

  And that matters to her heart—because all of this, the revamp, is her way of honoring her parents, who died far too soon, before they could do all they wanted with this hotel.

  She’s taken that on with her sister, carrying it out.

  And maybe, just maybe, I can help.

  4

  Stone

  I can’t fucking resist.

  It’s not in my nature.

  The second I see my buddy with a gorgeous beauty, I have one mission and one mission only. Hook him up.

  Hook him all the way up.

  He’s hot for her, and I bet she’s keen on him.

  How could she not be? He’s the coolest cat with the biggest heart. And the ladies have always loved him.

  Ergo . . .

  I smack my bodyguard’s arm as we head to Speakeasy. “Bet me, Jackson. I bet I can get Callum to take her home.”

  The retired Marine, who still sports a short, trim cut, shakes his head, grumbling. “You’d do well to stay out of other people’s personal lives.”

  I roll my eyes. “Nope. Not my style. Can’t do that.”

  “Of course not. Leopards don’t change their spots.”

  “C’mon, J-Man. Don’t you like my spots?”

  His face is impassive as he ignores me, scanning the joint, making sure I can get to Speakeasy without any crowds chasing us. The SUV dropped us off at the security entrance, and everything is looking good.

  I pretend to check out my spots. “I think my leopard spots are hot AF. I bet plenty of others do too.”

  “As if you need more adulation.”

  “I will take all the adulation I can get,” I say as we head into Speakeasy, toward the private room in the back. My tone goes serious for a few seconds, something it rarely does. “You want to join me? My bud’s in the protective services business too.”

  Jackson shakes his head. “I’ll stick to doing my job.”

  He stands guard by the entrance to the private room, arms crossed over his chest. Man, if I could get this guy to break, it’d be a goddamn miracle. Maybe someday. Until then, I have other chords to strum.

  “See you soon, handsome,” I say, just to get his goat. I gotta tease him, since the man doesn’t crack a smile often.

  I weave my way through the back room, knowing Jackson will make sure the crowds don’t find me. They haven’t yet, because the man is damn good at his job.

  Callum spots me in a second and stands, clapping me on the shoulder. “Good to see you, man.”

  I bring him in for a bro hug, then my eyes do a very happy dance when I see the beauty by his side. The one, the only, the heiress. And she is fine. “And that’s enough of you,” I say, and turn to the blonde. “Whoever do we have here?” I ask, as if I don’t know one of America’s wealthiest women.

  The woman in the curve-hugging black dress rises. “Ivy Carmichael. Pleasure to meet you, Stone.”

  She offers her hand, but I don’t shake it. Instead, I plant a kiss on top of it. “Charmed.”