Weston’s eyes are steady, trustworthy somehow, but I can feel the wall rising in my chest, enveloping my heart so none of the panic can squeeze out. The last thing I want to do is to tell him about my dad. The last thing I want is for him to feel sorry for me. I don’t need him to feel sorry for me, to pity me, and I don’t need his help.

I don’t need his help dealing with the situation, at least. I’d have hailed a cab if he hadn’t offered the ride. I was going to, anyway, but he seemed so insistent—

It’s just a ride, I tell myself, even though it’s as much just a ride as the meal we were about to have was just lunch. There’s always an undercurrent with him, and there’s one right now, zinging through my heart, laying waste to the defenses I’ve built up in order to just get through these years.

He didn’t get where he is today by cancelling meetings over a strange woman’s emergency calls…

I search his eyes for a sign that this is just another strategy, just another page out of Weston Grant’s playbook, but his dancing green gaze is nothing but sincere.

I still can’t bring myself to do it. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Satisfy my morbid curiosity, then.” He narrows his eyes just slightly. “This is about your dad?”

My heart beats a little faster. “How much of that conversation did you hear?”

“I left right away. I might be very interested in you, Juliet James, but I’m not about to eavesdrop on your private conversations.”

Weston Grant is a playboy. Weston Grant goes through women like they’re dollar bills—thoughtlessly, without any one of them making an impact, without any of them meaning anything to him. Weston Grant came after me at the Rose, and he still hasn’t given up. I still can’t see how I’m any different than any of his other women—except for the fact that I turned him down twice—and yet he’s looking at me right now like I’m the most important person in the world, the only person in the world.

Jesus, it would be nice to tell someone about all this.

But there’s a huge part of me that’s sounding the alarm. Give him this, and you’re giving him leverage. 

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s for anyone—especially men—to have anything they can use against me. Especially a man like Weston Grant, who uses leverage without a shred of conscience to make money hand over fist.

I take a deep, steadying breath. We’re in his car, and the breath I take is filled with the clean scent of his skin and the expensive fabrics touching his body where I wish I could lay my hands. My heart thunders against my rib cage.

Dave is navigating the car through traffic with an expert hand, and in the silence while Weston waits for my answer, he drops a single question into the air. “What’s the address, Miss James?”

The absurdity of it all—being in Weston Grant’s car, being called Miss James by a driver—makes a giggle bubble up in my chest, but I swallow it back down and reel off the address for my dad’s retirement home, which doubles as a nursing home. Weston’s eyes burn into me as I say the words, his gaze so hot and focused that when I’ve finished speaking, I can’t do anything but lean back against the seat and look into his eyes.

“I don’t recognize the address.” His tone is soft, hardly coaxing, but I answer him anyway.

“It’s my father’s retirement home. A place called Overbrook Heights.”

Weston’s forehead wrinkles. “Is he all right?”

I sigh, the blood pulsing faster in my veins. “I think so. I don’t know. I won’t know until I get there. There’s no telling—” I break off, a lump rising in my throat. My dad is too young to be in this kind of retirement home, but after the brain injury, there was nowhere else willing to take him that wasn’t also essentially a prison for the elderly. The staff at Overbrook are among some of the best I can afford.

By the skin of my teeth.

That won’t be the only topic of discussion once I arrive, either. There are overdue bills to be paid, because two months ago I had to move out of the apartment I shared with three roommates when the entire building got shut down when they failed—hard—an asbestos inspection, among other things. Now I’m living in a studio the size of a closet that’s a little closer to work and Anderson, but with the security deposit and down payment....

Darla Detlowe, the head administrator, is going to want to discuss my plans for payment. I’ve been taking every possible shift at the Rose. I’ve been collecting every possible tip. But I don’t know that she’ll be satisfied with that answer.

Another shiver runs through me. “There’s just no telling how he’ll be.” Then another horrifying thought flashes into my mind. “You’re not coming in.”

Weston’s eyes go bright at the sentence, like he’s just been challenged. Damn it. I should have known better. “You seem upset, Juliet. I don’t want you to have to face whatever this situation is by yourself.”

A twist of anger tightens my gut. “I can handle it, I promise you.” My tone is pure acid, but I can’t stop myself. “I’ve been handling it by myself for years.”

Weston shifts in his seat, getting closer instead of backing away. This man is relentless. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you can’t handle it.” I hate his even tone. I hate the way he apologizes so smoothly, his eyes still on mine, never wavering, never straying downward away from my face. I hate it, and yet I’m desperate to hear more, desperate for his voice to slide into my mind. “I just meant that these things are easier when there’s someone standing by your side.”

“Oh? And you’re going to be that person for me?”

He cracks a smile—a gorgeous, radiant smile that I can’t for the life of me find a flaw in. “You’re in my car. It would be convenient.”

“Aren’t you usually in the business of taking money from people instead of helping them?” I don’t know what comes over me, forcing the comment from my mouth.

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “I don’t agree with that assessment. I do make a hefty profit—that’s entirely true. But many, many people have benefitted from the work of Grant Pharmaceuticals.”

“I’m sure they have.”

“You’d be right.”

My shoulders have gone tight, the muscles tensed. With every block we get closer to Forest Hills, where Overbrook is, the more painful it gets. Chin up and get through it. I force myself to relax, which works, but only marginally. “You’re not the kind of man who takes no for an answer, are you?”

“Not usually, no.”

I close my eyes and take in another deep cleansing breath that does nothing to calm my nerves. This is why I should never have accepted his offer—any of them. I knew it then and I know it now.

But I’m not stupid. Flinging myself out of the car now would only cost me more time, and I’m already missing class as it is. “If you really feel you need to, you can come in with me.” I try to keep my tone in the range that says I’m deciding to let you do this instead of I’m giving in. “But I’m not introducing you to my father.”