Chapter 13
ARDEN
I don’t know why I thought a midnight swim with a near-stranger was a good idea. But this house, this view, the room… it all feels so surreal, like I’ve stepped into a dream. Yet somehow, for the moment, this is my actual life.
In that moment, standing in the guest suite, surrounded by sleek lines and luxury at a level I’ve only ever seen on TV, I decided I’m going to let myself have this. The travel. The job. Him. Whatever this is. Because I know it won’t last.
I guess that decision is how I ended up here, floating in Locke’s massive infinity pool, suspended above all of Los Angeles.
I glide toward the edge where the water appears to spill straight over the hillside; the lights stretching endlessly below, the ocean a black, unknowable line beyond them.
The water feels warm against my skin despite the cool ocean breeze drifting around me.
For a moment, I close my eyes and pretend this is mine. All of it.
The view. The stillness. A life where I’m not always planning an exit.
Then Locke slips in. He doesn’t speak, just drifts closer and closer until he’s leaning against the edge, mirroring my stance. Just feet away. For a while we sit in silence, both of us staring into the night.
It’s the kind of silence that feels charged. Heavy, like the entire world around us is holding its breath. This always seems to happen around him. The feeling of the air getting thicker. The way my body forgets how to do simple things, like breathe.
I don’t look at him right away, but I don’t have to.
His presence presses against my skin, calm on the surface but humming underneath. Dangerous in a quiet way. The kind of danger you don’t see coming until it’s already too late.
“Is this what you expected?” he asks eventually. His voice is casual. As if we’re not half-naked in the dark. As if the memory of the night we shared isn’t still hanging between us.
I take a second too long to answer, willing my body to remember why I’m here.
“The pool?” I reply.
“The house,” he says. “Everything.”
When I decide to brave a glance, water is sliding down the hard planes of his chest, the black lines of his tattoos look sharpened and vivid beneath the surface.
Intricate Celtic designs woven together over the length of his arms and torso.
They’re precise and controlled, just like every other thing about him. My throat goes dry.
“I didn’t know what to expect,” I say, and it’s the truth. “I didn’t really expect to be here.”
His gaze doesn’t leave my face. Not to look at my body, or the view, or any of the countless distractions around us. Like he’s consciously refusing to look anywhere else.
A corner of his mouth twitches. “And?”
“And it’s…” I search for the right word and come up empty. Thoughts and memories collide at once. Cheap apartments with peeling paint, nights spent shivering under thin blankets, learning young that nothing was ever guaranteed. “Different,” I finish.
Something flickers in his eyes, like he heard everything I didn’t say.
“Different doesn’t sound like a complaint.”
“It’s not.” I look back out at the city, leaning forward on my elbows over the pool’s infinity edge. “It all just feels a little too easy to get used to.”
His expression hardens. “That’s how it gets you.”
The space between us feels smaller now. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe it’s just the way his attention presses in on me, like he’s using it to avoid something else.
For a split second, I want to close the distance. To see if the pull I feel is real. To find out if he’s as dangerous as he seems.
Then, his knee brushes mine beneath the water. It’s brief, maybe accidental, but I swear I feel a spark. A jolt of electricity that bursts straight up my spine.
He stills immediately. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move closer. Just waits.
My breath is caught in my throat. My pulse pounds in my ears.
I push gently away from the edge, widening the space between us again. Not much. Just enough to make the choice clear.
It was only one night.
He was just a mark.
We can’t do this.
I’m here for a job.
Locke watches me the entire time. Something dark and wild passes through his expression. It’s gone just as quickly as it came, sealed away behind that infuriating calm.
“Careful,” he says quietly. “This place has a way of making people forget themselves.”
I force a soft laugh. “Trust me. I’m very good at remembering who I am.”
His gaze drops then, dragging over my lips, my throat, the bare skin above the waterline. It lasts less than a second. But it tells me everything.
“Good,” he says, voice rougher now.
He pushes off the edge first, his jaw tightening as he does it. He’s creating even more space between us. Still, his eyes linger on me. For a heartbeat I want to reach for him, but I don’t. I can’t.
Despite the tension coiling between us, for now, I’m just floating. Letting the water hold me, letting the lights of the city, and him, fade into the night.
The next morning, the smell of coffee pulls me out of sleep. As I roll over to check the time, sunlight flashes off the infinity pool beyond the glass door, bright enough to make me squint.
I’m still here.
I’d almost convinced myself that last night was just a dream. That I’d wake up in my own bed to the sound of Zoe getting ready for school while Lexi packs her lunch.
But no, I’m here. Which means he must be somewhere in this house, too.
I swing my legs out of bed, my bare feet landing on the cool floor, and only then do I remember I’m wearing nothing but a lacy black thong. For a second, I toy with the idea of walking around like this.
Maybe Locke isn’t even home. Doesn’t he have some high-profile PR crisis to manage? I dismiss the thought just as quickly as it came, reaching for the silky white robe draped over a hook near the tub. I slip it on, wrapping the belt tight around my waist.
As I move down the hall, most of the doors are closed. Though one is cracked just enough for a sliver of warm light to spill across the cold gray tile.
I know I shouldn’t snoop around other people's houses, but my curiosity gets the best of me, and I nudge it open just enough to peek inside. For a second, I’m caught completely off guard.
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.
It’s an office; it must be Locke’s office, but it looks like it belongs in an entirely different house.
A massive wooden desk sits at the far end of the room.
An open laptop is perched beside a small lamp that drenches the space in warm, golden light.
A thick-cut crystal ashtray rests near the corner, with a small wooden box sitting next to it.
Through the glass window on the lid, I can make out the shape of cigars stacked neatly inside.
Dark wooden shelves climb the walls, each one flooded with books. Most of them look old and worn, like they’ve seen centuries.
Next to the door, a stretch of exposed brick catches my eye. I reach out, half expecting it to be fake, but it’s real, all right. Impressive… and surprising.
My attention drops to a sleek mid-century console sitting against the same wall.
A turntable and two massive speakers sit on top, polished and waiting for someone to use them.
Below, a sizable vinyl collection fills the shelves.
I step closer and kneel, fingertips trailing along the spines. Johnny Cash, Tom Waits, Miles Davis.
He might just have a soul after all.
There’s a sleek leather couch on the other wall with a small coffee table in front of it on which another cigar box rests. I’m noticing a pattern here.
I suppose it could all be for show, another prop in this carefully curated museum of a house. Still, I linger a moment longer before slipping back into the hallway, letting my fingers brush the edge of the turntable one last time.
When I reach the open kitchen and living space, I realize the morning light has changed everything. The sun streaming in through the massive windows gives everything a golden hue. The edges are softer, less sterile.
A small French press sits on the counter, a sleek glass mug beside it, the rich scent of coffee filling the air. Next to the coffee is an espresso machine with a sticky note attached: I didn’t know what you’d prefer, so I made coffee and prepped the espresso. Have whatever you like.
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. A thoughtful gesture? This man keeps blindsiding me this morning. I pour myself a cup of coffee, swirling in some cream, and take a sip as I resume my hunt for the elusive, broody, but surprisingly, thoughtful asshole.
I spot him outside through the wall of glass leading to the backyard. He’s wearing an immaculate black button-down shirt, tattoos barely visible beneath the collar, gray slacks, and another gleaming watch. He looks good. A little too good. Remember why you’re here, Arden.
He’s pacing the length of the pool, phone pressed against his ear, cigar in hand — seriously, at this hour? — and stress written all over his face.
He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, then drags them across his brow. His shoulders look tight. Whatever he’s dealing with, it can’t be pleasant.
The urge to watch him longer claws at me, but I force myself to turn away. The coffee warms my hands as I slip back toward the bedroom. Whatever today holds, I need to be ready for it.