“Your client appears to be late.”

I glance from the pasty face across the table to my phone, noting the time. This guy could use some of our LA sun before he goes back to New York, though it is summer there, too. Maybe he just doesn’t get out much.

“A little late,” I tell Kevin, the rep from Barrow Publishing. “But he’ll be here.”

“Our team’s excited about the possibility of working with Grip.” Kevin gestures with his fork wrapped in angel hair pasta. “He’ll be great for our urban imprint.”

“Your urban imprint?” My own fork is halfway to my mouth, but I place it back down in the bowl of my half-eaten salad. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, he is a hip-hop artist.” Kevin shrugs and chews his pasta. “Seems like the reasonable placement.”

“He’s also the guy whose debut album went double platinum and who sold out the largest venues across three continents while headlining his first world tour.” I challenge him with one lifted brow. “You don’t get numbers like that reaching a niche demographic. Grip has proven global appeal and would be best placed with your flagship imprint.”

“We’ll see.” Skepticism colors Kevin’s otherwise pale face.

“Oh, I know, because I won’t settle for anything less.” I spear a cucumber with my fork and him with a glance sharpened to a fine point. “Charisma knew that when she approached me with this offer.”

My friend Charisma and I went to high school together and were roommates at Columbia. She’s now a powerful editor at a huge publishing company. I would much prefer lunch with her instead of this junior editor, but her schedule didn’t allow for that.

My phone dings with a text on the table.

“Excuse me.” I grab the phone to check the incoming text.

Grip: Hey babe. Sorry. About to get on the road.

Me: ETA?

Grip: Huh? Is that dyslexic for eat? LOL

Despite my irritation that I have to spend more time alone with this sun-deprived dickhead, my lips twitch.

Me: Estimated time of arrival, smartass.

Grip: Like 10, but if you send me a tit pic, I might be able to shave a couple min off.

I shake my head and lose the battle with my lips, surrendering a wide grin. I try to ignore dickhead’s eyes on the tits in question. This guy is a bit of a lecher; I’ll have to ask Charisma what she was thinking sending him.

Me: Not funny. Get here so we can be done with this.

Grip: I’m coming, but you know I come faster when you show me your tits.

I walked right into that one. I don’t bother responding, instead setting the phone down and turning my attention back to Kevin the lecher.

“That was Grip.” I wait for his eyes to lift from nipple level. “He got held up at his previous appointment, but he’s en route.”

“It’s fine.” His slick smile lubricates the space between us, leaving a greasy film in the air. “Gives us a little more time alone.”

“Do we need more time alone?” I take a sip of my mineral water. “For what?”

“So I can persuade you to have dinner with me.”

Is this guy for real? I glance into the eyes behind his square glasses. Everything about him screams metrosexual, pretty much the polar opposite of Grip. I guess I’m self-absorbed enough to assume everyone knows Grip and I are together. We were outed in the worst possible way just after he and Qwest broke up—via a surveillance video leak and Black Twitter feud—but we’ve managed to keep a pretty low profile ever since. Apparently, Kevin missed that bit of juicy gossip.

“I think we should stick to business,” I offer with a wry smile.

“But what about pleasure?” He reaches across the table to rub the back of my hand.

“Pleasure?” I snatch my hand back. “Kevin, you wouldn’t know where to start pleasing me.”

He looks nonplussed, but it’s the truth. Some women have trouble admitting they love sex; I’m not one of them. I love it, but I’m a woman of discriminating tastes and hard-to-please nethers. Fortunately, my voracious appetite extends to exactly one man who’s figured it all out, and he’s probably . . . oh, less than ten minutes out.

Maybe I should have sent that tit pic after all.

“I just meant I’m only in LA for another day, and haven’t seen much of the city,” Kevin says. “I know you and Charisma are friends, so I thought maybe you could show me around before I go back to New York.”

Maybe I misjudged him.

Except his eyes are x-raying through my blouse again.

“Kevin, eyes up.”

“Sorry.” The lust in his eyes practically fogs up his glasses. “What?”

This is so not the way to get Grip on board with the book deal Charisma and I

have been brainstorming. I’m killing Charm next time I see her—not that I’ll see her any time soon. Barrow has her anchored to the East Coast, and Prodigy has me anchored to the West.

“Kevin, there’s something you should know. Grip and I—”

“Sorry I’m late.” The voice rolls over me like syrup, thick and sweet and sticking to my skin.

I glance over my shoulder, meeting the eyes I wake up to every morning, the color of chocolate flecked with caramel. Grip’s slow smile is that extravagant curve of full lips that has stuttered my breath since the day I met him. Even if he weren’t handsome, he would draw attention, reaching beyond sexuality, though sexual energy seeps from this man’s pores. It’s something more fundamental than sex appeal. Whatever it is, it’s raw and compelling and in his very bones. I’ve never been able to completely put my finger on it, but wouldn’t mind spending the next fifty years or so figuring it out.

“Grip, right?” Kevin stands and reaches past me to shake Grip’s hand. “Kevin.”

“Hey.” Grip glances from me to Kevin, accepting his outstretched hand. “Like I said, sorry I’m late.”

“Oh, no. It’s fine.” Kevin offers what is probably supposed to be a roguish grin, but comes off slightly creepy. “Gave me a little alone time with your manager here.”

Oh, please spare me this.

Grip cocks his head and narrows his eyes a centimeter. “Alone time?”

“Grip, I was just about to tell Kevin that—”

“Ah ah ah.” Grip silences me with a gesture, his eyes still locked on Kevin. “Let the man talk, Bris. And what did you use all this time alone for, Kevin?”

“I was persuading this beautiful lady to have dinner with me.” Kevin seats himself, dipping his head toward the empty seat awaiting Grip at the table.

“Oh.” Grip sits, nodding and setting his motorcycle helmet on the floor. “And how was that working out for you?”

“Between you and me”—Kevin slants me a knowing grin—“I think I was getting somewhere.”

“Uh, Kevin, you really should—” I try again.

“Was he, Bris?” Grip cuts in over me, crossing his arms—vibrantly inked and roped with muscle—over his chest. His white shirt reads HABITUAL LINE STEPPER; no telling what that means. “Getting somewhere, I mean?”

Though well disguised, humor percolates behind his polite inquiry. Grip is possessive, but he knows this guy would never be anything but a joke.

“No, I told him we should keep things strictly business.” I turn my attention from Grip to Kevin. “And I was just about to say I have a boyfriend.”

“I’m sure he’d understand.” Kevin flashes a conspiratorial wink Grip’s way.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t.” A vein of steel runs through Grip’s good-natured response. “He doesn’t like her having dinner with other guys.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, eh?” Kevin leans forward slightly to elbow Grip’s arm.

“Might get you hurt, though,” Grip says, elbowing Kevin back with a little more force. “Eh?”

“Ow.” Kevin rubs his arm, frowning at the spot Grip poked roughly.

This has gone on long enough. Every word out of Kevin’s mouth imperils this book deal.

“Kevin, Grip is my boyfriend,” I tell him, annoyed and tired of stretching this out.

Kevin’s poor jaw nearly unhinges.

“Grip is your boyfriend?” Behind the designer spectacles, his eyes widen and dart between Grip and me.

Grip links our fingers on the table.

“As fuck would have it, yup.” Grip raises our hands to his lips, kissing my fingers, but keeps his eyes trained on Kevin. “Is this your strategy for signing new authors? Hitting on their girlfriends? ’Cause I gotta tell ya, it’s kinda brilliant.”

I can’t help it—I snort. My inelegant laugh draws Grip’s dark eyes and wicked grin, fanning heat low in my belly that slides even farther south. I went years barely being intimate with anything that wasn’t battery operated, and now I can’t go two hours without wanting to be horizontally naked with this guy.

Though we did do it vertically in the shower this morning. I squirm in my seat remembering the slice of steamy heaven we had before the sun was all the way up. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can get back to the office and then home for more of that, whichever home we choose tonight. At some point, I guess I’ll sell my place, or Grip will sell his? We’ll live together, but will we get engaged first? Married? He did tell my mother he would marry me one day.

Oh, Bristol, please don’t become one of those women obsessed with getting a ring, I self-admonish.

Because if you can’t admonish yourself, who can?

We’re in no hurry, and I actually appreciate our pace. The last few months have been . . . I don’t even have language for how happy I am. It’s contentment sheathed in passion, twisted around the deepest, most honest connection I’ve ever known. I wish everyone could taste this, could have this. That’s when you know you’re far gone—when you start wishing everyone else had what you have. I know what it’s like to live without it, to live without him. It’s lackluster, a pale parallel existence I have no intention of revisiting. We got just a taste of it this summer when he was on tour and I needed to stay behind in LA.

Miserable.

“Does that sound good, Bristol?”

Kevin’s question snaps my attention back to the conversation at the table. Now I’m daydreaming? In the middle of a meeting? About proposals and engagement rings and fairy-tale endings?

“Uh, sorry.” I split an apologetic glance between Grip and Kevin. “I got distracted. Does what sound good?”

“Grip wanted to reschedule the meeting.” Kevin considers the calendar on his phone. “He has a session to get to at the studio, so maybe we can talk about the deal when he has more time.”

Does Grip really have a session? Or is he just writing Kevin and this deal off? I try to read between the impassive lines of his face. I want him to give this a chance, despite the awful first impression Kevin made.

“You have a session?” I probe to see what he’ll reveal.

His mouth kicks to the left, which usually indicates he’s privately laughing at someone.

“Yeah, and don’t you have that thing to get to?” He stands, grabbing his helmet and me, gently pulling me up by the elbow. “We both probably need to get out of here. Nice meeting you, Kev.”

So that’s a no on the session.

“You go to the studio.” I pull away, narrowing my eyes at him so he knows I have his number. “I’ll close things out with Kevin.”

A quick frown clouds his expression. Joke or no joke, he doesn’t want to leave me with some guy who was hitting on me just a few minutes ago.

“I can probably skip it.” Grip’s smile settles into an unyielding line.

“No need.” I turn to Kevin. “I’m just gonna walk Grip out. I’ll be back to discuss alternate dates.”

“Sounds good. Great meeting you, Grip.” Kevin picks up the menu and offers a quick smile. “I’ll look at dessert.”

Grip doesn’t move, just keeps staring at Kevin, so I hook my arm through his and lead him out of the restaurant and to the parking lot. Once we reach the spot where his motorcycle is parked, Grip’s hands settle on my hips and he pulls me into his chest, locking us together.

“What’s up, little shawty?” he teases, running his nose along my neck. “What’s your name? You got a man?”

“I do,” I answer huskily. “But I could be persuaded. He’ll never know.”

“The hell.” Grip chuckles, nipping my ear and sliding his hand to the small of my back.

“You don’t really have a session, do you?” I ask abruptly, breaking the spell he’s trying to weave.

“I’m not dealing with this guy, Bris.” He pulls back to peer down at my face. “And neither are you. He’s trying to have dinner with you? I’m not doing business with that—”

“In his defense,” I cut in before he works himself into a lather. “He didn’t know I’m taken.”

Something flares behind his eyes when I use the word that says I’m his. I knew he’d like that; I’m nothing if not deliberate.

He leans down the few inches separating us until his lips are at my ear. His hands inch up to span my waist, his thumbs subtly, secretively brushing the underside of my breast. My breath hovers in my throat, suspended, and my mouth waters as I remember the taste of him this morning. Me on my knees in the shower, water beating on my shoulders, the long, rigid length of him hitting the back of my throat. His fingers screwed into my hair, holding my head still while he pumped over my tongue, scraped against my lips.

“So you’re taken, huh?” He breathes against my neck. As calm as he looks from the outside, I hear the hitch in his breath, feel him hard and pressed into my belly. “I don’t see a ring.”

I shoot him a sharp glance. We haven’t talked about rings and proposals in a while—it hasn’t mattered. We practically live together, though we both still have our own places. Anything other than together isn’t an option, but his teasing statement makes me wonder if he’s started to think about it the way I have. I find myself holding out my hand a few times a day, studying my ring finger, wondering what he would choose for it . . . wondering when he’ll ask.

Wondering when it started to matter so much to me. The last thing I want is to make him feel pressured. We’ve loved each other for years, true, but we haven’t been official for long at all.

“Grip, I’m not—”

He palms my throat, thumb on one side of my face, fingers on the other, commanding me, coaxing my mouth open. His tongue sweeps the sensitive lining inside my jaw, over my teeth, around my lips. The sun is high in the sky. Patrons walk past us, coming to and leaving the restaurant. A few gawk. I’m not sure if they recognize Grip or if our PDA al fresco just disconcerts them. The kiss slows to mere brushes of our mouths, my lips pulled between his with tiny tugs and hungry bites. The firm hold he has on my chin softens, and his fingers slide into the hair falling around my neck.

“I had to shut you up because every time I mention rings you start stuttering and saying stupid shit.” His eyes smile down at me. “And your mouth kind of hangs open. It’s not a good look for you.”

A laugh breaks free from me. It’s a happy sound, like a caged bird free and singing. That’s how I feel sometimes, like for years I walked around locked up, guarding my heart against this man, and now I’ve been let loose, liberated, kissing in broad daylight on the street and spilling laughter that sounds like a bird’s song.

And not giving a damn what anyone thinks about it.

“Oh really?” My smile widens an inch. “I seem to remember you liked my mouth open this morning in the shower.”

His chuckle rumbles in the small space separating our bodies.

“Damn, Bris. What am I gonna do with you?”

“You’ll figure something out.” I prop my forearms on his shoulders, caressing his neck. “You always do.”

He studies me for a few long seconds, something changing in his eyes. They sober, the cocky grin falling into a straight line.

“What’s wrong?” I cup one side of his face, the slight scruff tickling my palm. One minute we’re flirting and teasing, verging on horny, and the next we’re . . . not.

“Nothing.” He sets his hand over mine against his jaw. “I just missed you today. I miss you when we’re apart.”

His words settle over my heart, refreshing like rain falling on dry, thirsty ground. I feel it, too. I’m not sure how I kept him at bay for eight years when eight hours away from him makes my chest ache. The look in his eyes . . . there’s more to it than what’s on the surface, but I’m not sure what. He traces the corner of my mouth.

“You’re just trying to distract me,” I turn my mouth to kiss the hand touching my face, “from getting back to Kevin.”

Grip rolls his eyes, some of the humor returning.

“You seriously think I’m dealing with that dude?” He scoffs a quick rush of air.

“Don’t judge the deal by Kevin. I wish you could meet my friend Charisma. She’d be your editor, but she’s tied up in New York, and Kevin just happened to be here in LA.”

“Maybe we could meet her in New York.” Grip’s tone is careful and his glance is searching, but I’m not sure what he’s looking for. Am I missing something?

“Not any time soon.” I sigh, running my thumb over the dark arch of his brows. “Charm’s stuck there, and things are way too hectic for me to get away right now.”

“Yeah?” Grip twists his lips into a grimace.

“Yeah. Kai’s finally about to drop her debut album, and Rhyson’s in the studio working on his next project.” A sudden smile takes over my face. “I forgot to tell you I got Luke that reality show about the making of his next album.”

“Wow.” Grip’s eyes drop to the ground before he looks back to me. “Yeah, you’ve got a lot going on here.”

“The show’s filming in LA for the most part. I need to be on set at least for the initial footage, and don’t get me started on everything happening for Jimmi. I may have to hand her off to Sarah, though she’d kill me.”

“I get it,” Grip says with a small smile. “You’re too busy to go to New York.”

There it is again. What’s that look? Am I talking about work too much? I do that. I get caught up in my career, but I’m lucky enough to make dreams come true for the people I love the most. I never knew how fulfilling it would be, how damn good at it I would be. With every accomplishment, the opportunities double and my ambitions multiply. It’s never bothered Grip before, but maybe now that things are busier than they’ve ever been, he’s tired of hearing about my work and how much I love it.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I say. “Here I am going on and on about Prodigy and all my stuff, and I didn’t even ask about school. You registered for classes today, right?”

He goes still for a second, his expression becoming unreadable.

“I’m still looking at classes. There’s a little time before I finalize things for next semester.”

“Well I want to hear all about it tonight.” I tip up to leave a kiss on his lips. “But now I need to get back to Kevin.”

Grip’s face loosens into a grin.

“Tell his goofy ass you already have dinner plans, and to back off my girl.”

“Oh, I have dinner plans?” I take a few steps backward toward the restaurant entrance, my eyes never leaving the handsome face with its stark planes and bold bones. “And what are these plans?”

“Dinner at my place.”

“Am I bringing dinner?”

That’s usually what happens—neither of us is exactly gourmet chef material.

“No, I’ll grill up on the roof.”

Ah, the roof, one of my favorite places in the world. Overlooking everything but isolated from it all, just my love and me. Add medium rare red meat, and it’s my own private utopia.

“Then I’ll see you after work.” I smile and turn to go.

“Hey Bris,” he calls.

I look over my shoulder to find that sober look back in his eyes, tightening the skin over his high cheekbones, making me nervous.

“I love you.”

He says it to me every day, several times a day, and it never gets old, never frays around the edges or fails to palpitate my susceptible heart.

“I love you, too.”

I don’t try to lighten the moment with an easy smile or a flippant comment. Whatever is bothering him, he’ll tell me, probably tonight. I’ll let him come to it on his own.

In the meantime, Kevin.