West Hollywood is just far enough away from Beverly Hills that I don’t have to worry about running into Mommy Dearest.

Yeah, I took some crap this morning from Brooklyn about not returning any of her calls, but fuck, I’m just not ready for that shit parade to begin.

I pull onto Norwich Drive and stop for a moment to admire the architecture of the houses. I grew up in a high-rise in Manhattan. I never had a real yard to play in. Central Park was about as close as I got. New York versus California. I have to admit, that is a hard one.

The thought has me staring for a bit at each of the homes on the street.

After Maggie and I arrived at the Simon Warren flagship store this morning, I was whisked away to be showered, measured, fluffed, and folded. For the rest of the day, Maggie and I barely had two seconds to do anything but stare at each other.

A little after five she informed me she was getting a ride to her mother’s house from one of the salesclerks, and then whispered in my ear with a slight purr that I could pick her up there.

Talk about distracting.

After getting steamrolled by the store manager into going out for a drink after he closed up promptly at 6 p.m., I didn’t have time to check into a hotel, or put my dick in check for an evening out with Maggie.

She had made it pretty clear this date was going to end with just a good-night kiss.

Let’s see who trumps whom in the willpower category.

Pulling into the driveway, I look at Maggie’s mother’s house. I’ll give California this: they know how to build houses.

Katherine May’s private residence is oddly modern and if the words fit together, calming at the same time. It is screened from the street by a dense olive grove. The light-dappled exterior makes it feel like the house is somehow removed from the surrounding neighborhood.

Very private.

Something I really admire.

Talk about two different worlds—Manhattan and West Hollywood couldn’t be more different. And strangely enough, I’m finding myself being drawn into this world.

City boy.

California girl.

Cocky versus sassy.

Nah, it could never work.

Jamming the Porsche into park, I want to slap my own face—man up, dude, and stop overthinking everything. You’re not a chick.

I check my phone for the time.

Dates are like meetings—you should never be too late or too early. Late screams disinterested and early bleeds of overeagerness. Six fifty-four. Perfect. A minute to get to the door and then five minutes early. Just like when I’d slide into the boardroom before my fall from Wall Street.

The text I sent her an hour ago remains unanswered.

Me: Dress down. And don’t wear a bra.

Hmmm…I think I need to remind her that proper phone etiquette dictates acknowledging the receipt of a message.

Yeah, yeah, I know, the pot calling the kettle back—but we’re over that.

Opening the wooden gate, I step into a lit pathway that leads to an oversized glass door. At first glance through it, my heart thunders in my chest and I have to suck in a breath to control myself.

Shit. There goes my dick again.

Maggie’s in the kitchen, wearing a pair of skintight jeans and a bold printed top held up by thin straps on her sexy shoulders. Her hair is down and the front braided to the side.

Fuck me right now, but I want to break out singing the Beach Boys classic “California Girls,” and yeah, maybe give that braid a tug from behind, with both of us naked.

Refocusing, I look through the glass with the biggest smirk on my face. She’s standing at the kitchen counter and shooting a glass of what I have to assume is whiskey.

She wasn’t kidding when she said she isn’t like most girls.

Here’s the thing—that’s what I find attractive as hell about her. Like really fucking attractive.

An overwhelming need to taste her overcomes me, and I ring the bell at the same time she brings her head forward.

Our eyes connect, and I swear that the lightning I stood outside in earlier decides to finally strike.

Setting her glass down, she walks toward me, and I notice right away the different-colored Converse on her feet. One green and one blue. Her quirky sense of style makes my wide-ass smirk even wider, if that is possible.

She just has to be a rebel.

Reminds me of myself, except I rebelled in very different ways. My anger about my mother leaving me behind was something I never could shake.

Sure, the famous Emma Fairchild was involved in my life as far as sending a check to my old man to finance a nice place for me to live, my private school, and whatever shit I needed that he couldn’t afford, but that was about as far as her mothering went.

So to get her attention, I acted out.

Smoking pot in the bathroom during high school assemblies. Skipping finals just because. Fucking teachers because they were attracted to me. My mother never reacted, but it certainly left my old man pulling his hair right out of his head. Honestly, I’d take back all that shit I caused him if I could.

The door swings open and all I can smell is Maggie. All I can see is Maggie. And all I can feel is Maggie. She has launched herself at me and thrown her arms around my neck, finding my lips in the heartbeat of a second it takes me to figure out this is real, and not some fantasy I’m imagining for jerk-off purposes.

Of course in that fantasy she’d be naked, coated head to toe in whipped cream, and have cherries on her titties. Immature, yeah, I know, but it’s my fantasy.

Panting and out of breath, I pull back. “Maggie…” I exhale slowly.

Those bright blue eyes of hers sparkle when they lift. “Hi.”

Taken completely off guard by this, my hands somehow end up on her ass, and I consider my options here.

“Is your face going to remain the perfect picture of desire?”

Decision made, I push her ass right into my straining erection. “Depends on what you do next.”

She raises an adorable brow. The fact that she is playful and bold at the same time turns me on beyond my control. “Do you have something particular in mind?”

My mouth dips back down and hovers over her lips. “As a matter of fact, I do. Maybe we could say we have already gone on the date and this is the good-night kiss?”

Her tongue sneaks out and licks my lips. “If that were the case, I’d have to close the door right now with you on the other side.”

I snatch her tongue between my teeth and slide my tongue into her mouth. “Or, the date could have gone so well, you’re now inviting me in.”

She reaches around and her fingers thread through my hair. “For a cup of coffee before I send you on your way?”

“No, because you can’t keep your hands off me, my little bedwrecker, and you want to drag me into your bedroom to have your wicked way with me.”

She laughs. “Oh, Keen, you have to do better than a lip-lock for that on a first date.”

I bury my lips behind her ear. “You’re going to make me work for it, huh?”

She steps back onto the pinewood floor and grabs her purse near the door. “You better believe it. I expect you to woo me. Now where are we going?”

“Wait one minute! You get me all riled up and just like that you’re ready to go spend hours at a restaurant?”

She bats those long eyelashes of hers. “Yes, a date is what you called this, and a date is what I want. Just because I let you in my pants before doesn’t mean it will happen again.”

I yank her out the door and right up to my chest. “Good thing I have reservations at the perfect restaurant, then.”

She straightens the collar on my plain white button-down. “We’ll see. I have very…unique tastes.”

Lacing my fingers in hers, I lead her toward my car. “Yes, so I’ve observed.”

For a moment her flirty façade slips and I get a glimpse of the real Maggie. The one that wants someone to understand her.

Little does she know…I already do.

Her façade goes back up within seconds of slipping. “Like I said, we’ll see.”

This man might not be used to having to woo a woman, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how.

“Challenge accepted, Maggie May…I’ll have you begging for me by the time the night is over.”

Guaranteed.