Chapter 23
ARDEN
A cool breeze and streaks of sunlight streaming in through the open villa window tug me from sleep. My hand reaches across the bed, but all I feel are cold sheets.
Locke must be awake already, as usual. It’s really a wonder I woke up before him the night we met… I haven’t since. I rub my eyes, dragging my hands down my face as last night rushes back to me.
As much as I try to recall the details, it’s mostly a blur. It comes back only in disjointed flashes. His hands pinning mine to marble, the cold countertop against my spine, the scent of whiskey on his breath as he told me he wasn’t stopping until I begged. And I did.
I groan softly. Fuck. How are we ever going to finish this job now?
He could barely handle the sight of me flirting with Luke at the gala, and that was just a harmless conversation.
This, though, this just strengthened the pull between us.
We’ve broken down the only wall that kept us focused.
How do I go back to being his ‘employee’ when I know exactly what he looks like when he loses control?
I wonder if he left because he’s having the same thoughts. I stare at the ceiling, waiting for the familiar, cold focus of the mission ahead to return, but it’s muted by the phantom weight of his hands still pressing against my skin.
As if he read my mind, the door creaks open and Locke strolls into the bedroom in nothing but his boxers, sunlight highlighting the thick black lines covering his chest, torso, and arms. It’s easy to forget how much of his body is covered in ink when he’s always wearing suits that cover it. It should be illegal to look that good.
He’s carrying a massive platter stacked with pastries, a large bowl of fruit, and two tiny coffee cups.
“Espresso!” I squeal.
“I figured you’d want options.” His voice is rough with sleep, but his eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them. There’s a certain sense of contentment about him now that wasn’t there before.
He places the tray gently on the bed and climbs in beside me. We both go for the espresso first, using our pointer fingers and thumbs to lift the tiny cups to our lips.
“You know, we’re really making a mess of the employee handbook.” I gesture between us and the tray. “I keep trying to find a way that we can go back to normal, but I think we’ve already gone too far for that. There’s not a shred of professional distance left to hide behind, is there?”
He shakes his head slowly. “I’m afraid not. But do you really want normal when we can be something so much more?”
I hold his gaze, the warmth of the espresso and the sheer nakedness of the man beside me making it hard to even entertain the thought of leaving this bed.
I sigh, knowing he’s right once again. “Give me the mess over ‘normal’ any day,” I admit, my smile growing wide.
“I think I prefer this version of Lochlan Bishop. We both know my life is far from normal as it is.”
He smiles too, but that unreadable look returns as he sets his cup down.
“The problem with this version,” he says, his voice losing its playful edge, “is that he’s dreading the part where we have to stop being this and go back to being whatever the hell we are out there. ” He gestures toward the window.
He leans in, his hand resting on the mattress next to my hip. “I don’t want to find our way back to normal, because ‘normal’ was us pretending we didn’t want to do this every day. I’m done with the act.”
He searches my face, probably waiting to see if I’ll agree or try to brush it off, like I have so many times before.
“I want to know that when the threats are over and the job is done, I don’t have to ask for permission to be near you anymore. Is that something you can live with?”
I feel the energy in the room shift. The realization settles between us. This has gone from a temporary mess to something that actually has a future. “I think I can manage that,” I whisper.
He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his gaze intensifies, that unreadable look finally sharpening into something close to regret.
“And I know I said you could do jobs like this and make real money, when we met,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “but I’ve realized I just can’t stand watching you do it. ”
His hand moves from the mattress to the small of my back, pulling me just an inch closer. “I don’t want you to have to play these games just to get by. Let me take care of you, Arden. Let me be the one who makes sure you’re set, so you never have to choose between a paycheck and your peace.”
I’m quiet for a moment, the weight of his offer, and the possessiveness behind it, settling over me. It’s a complete departure from the man who threatened me with jail time to get me to agree to this job in the first place.
“You’re serious?” I breathe.
“Dead serious,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw before he finally looks at the clock. Suddenly, the reality of the morning crashes back in. “Shit, but for right now, we still have things to do. Drink your coffee while you get ready.”
My brow furrows. “Wait, what? Where are we going?”
He shakes his head, releasing a sigh. “Oh, shit, I ruined the surprise.” He reluctantly adds, “Jaxon Wilde is playing at the most historic music venue in Verona tonight. Sound check is in an hour.”
He spends the next few minutes explaining how we’ll catch up with Jax before the show to get more information about Luke’s video and how he got into this little predicament. My jaw hangs
open the entire time he talks. Sharp breaths of air catch in my throat with every additional detail he shares.
I move to scoot toward the edge of the bed, ready to get dressed, but before I can get there, Locke grabs my wrist. He mutters, “Just think about what I said, though.”
I nod silently as I head into the next room.
When I leave the bathroom 45 minutes later, my jaw instantly hits the floor. “I didn’t even know you owned a t-shirt!”
He shoots me an unamused glare from his spot on the edge of the bed. He’s handsome in a suit, but in everyday wear? It’s giving a slightly older James Dean.
He’s in a pair of straight-legged Tom Ford jeans and a white t-shirt with sleeves that hug his biceps just enough to show off his muscular build and the bold Celtic designs woven together around his arms. The whole look is screaming, “Climb on top of me.” And the way he’s eyeing me tells me he’s thinking the same about my outfit choice.
I chose an old band t-shirt that I cut across the top to hang off my right shoulder and tied at the bottom to show just a hint of skin.
A tight, black faux leather skirt hugs my curves with wide fishnet tights underneath.
Then, I threw on my usual black chunky-heeled boots.
I grabbed a flannel shirt from my bag and tied it around my waist as a finishing touch.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
“What’s wrong with it?” I ask, brows raised, genuinely confused by his reaction.
“Absolutely nothing,” he says, his eyes wandering down the length of my body and back up again. “I’m just not sure I’ll be able to focus on anything with you looking like that. Are you trying to torture me?”
“Consider it payback for last night,” I say, laughing to myself.
He gives me a devious smile. The look of a man who knows exactly how little I’m protesting what happened between us.
He moves toward me, one hand finding my waist as the other wraps gently around my throat, squeezing just enough to make me forget how to breathe on my own. It’s a subtle reminder of his declaration earlier — that he’s done with the distance.
Then he kisses me, a slow, intentional press of his lips against mine. “Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice regaining that professional tone even as his eyes stay soft, “before I decide we have more important things to do, like getting back in that bed.”
I nod, my heart pounding against my ribs, and follow him out.