TRENT WAS PREPARING for one last sweep of the mall before calling it a night. It was the third Saturday in a row he’d covered, and he was beat. He was going to have to hire more men; the two new guys weren’t enough. Still working long days, nights, and weekends, trying to keep the books himself—which wasn’t going well at all, invoices were behind, and payroll with all the recent overtime was a nightmare—and servicing over thirty accounts was taking its toll.

As for a social life, his was non-existent. So, when Curt and Austin requested Valentine’s Day off, he’d given them both the time off.  He didn't have a date and had no prospects for a woman in his bed—he could have called someone, but meaningless sex was only that to him nowadays, meaningless, and so overrated.

Who was he kidding? He had a prospect, but like a wuss, he hadn’t gotten around to asking the one he truly wanted to be with to be both his date and the one to warm his bed. And after the other night, hell, he didn’t know where they stood. 

Fuck.

Big Mike Benson walked in the door just then and asked as he always did, “Anything?”.

Trent came close to rolling his eyes in disgust, but said instead, “We’ve got some paint drying on the walls in the renovation area on level three, if it gets your juices going. Otherwise, the mall is closed, so it’s the same shit, different night.”

His overnight surveillance guy shook his head. “Challenging stuff. I haven’t seen this much action since Jalalabad.”

Trent eyed the ex-Marine. “I’ve got a friend hiring private security contractors in the theater. You interested?”

“Fuck no,” he shot back. “I hung up my camo for good a decade ago.”

“So quit complaining.”

He held up his hands in surrender at Trent’s touchiness. “Just making conversation, boss.”

“Mmhmm,” he grunted as he picked up his empty Yeti and slung his leather jacket under his arm.

“You’re covering me next Saturday for my daughter’s wedding rehearsal, right?”

Yeah, this was getting old. But he nodded and said as he turned to leave, “Absolutely.”

“Great. I got one job, walking down the aisle with my girl while wearing a damn monkey suit, but the wife would bitch until my ears bled if we didn’t—” Stopping mid-rant, his eyes shifted, and his brows slammed together. “Hey, what’s the silent alarm about?”

Trent spun back, his eyes homing in on the alert as Benson took his seat at the console. “It must have just gone off. Where is it? I’ll check it on my way out.” 

“Second-floor mezzanine, the lingerie shop.”

Shit. Carly was working tonight.

On the move, he barked his orders. “Put it on screen. If you see anything that seems the least bit off, send Reeves to back me up, pronto, then call 911. It’s probably the alarm system; I worked on it the other day. I’ll give an all-clear when I know for sure.”

“Roger, boss.”

He took the rear stairs two at a time. A quick check of the time marked it at three minutes past when Carly was due out the door.  Fucking hell, he hoped she was out. She’d probably only screwed up the code again.

Think, Trent. If that’s all this is, alarms would be blaring.

Only slowing on the second landing, he threw open the door and was through it, moving double-time toward Carly’s shop.  The alarm had tripped silent, which meant she either forget to set it or wasn’t able to. The prospect of the latter sent cold chills shooting down his spine at the same time his skin beaded with sweat. By the time he could hear the fountain, he was running flat out.

***

“GOOD LUCK WITH OPERATION Sweet Nothings,” Jana called to her through the metal gate.

Carly froze in the middle of locking it down and hopped to her feet, glaring at the new girl.

“I swear, Jana, if you utter a word to Sherry or anyone else, you’ll be responsible for your own death.”

She wasn’t offended by her idle threat and laughed from her safe location on the mall side of the heavy metal barrier. “I won’t say a word, but I do expect to be a member of the wedding party when the special day comes.”

“Don’t you think you’re getting ahead of yourself?” Carly scoffed, but secretly thrilled at the idea. If tonight went as planned, it might more than a snowball’s chance of happening, which she felt sure were the odds only a few days ago. “I’ve got to pull tonight off without him laughing in my face or turning me down flat before I can start planning bridesmaids’ gifts, flowers, and a cake.”

“If Trent Jacobs rejects the promise of you all decked out in the sexiest little black number Monica’s exclusive stock has to offer, I’ll eat my purse.” She held up her awesome pink-multi leather satchel. “And this is Kate Spade, which I love, so you know how positive I am this will work. If he does, I’ll also beg your forgiveness because you’ll prove you were right all along.”

“About what?”

“Trent being gay. But that ain’t gonna happen, babe, trust me.” Then she giggled. “When he gets a load of you in naughty black mesh, sweet ruffles, lace, and your curvy booty bared for his hands—or palms, as the case may be.” Jana paused for an exaggerated wink. “You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t end the festivities prematurely, if you get my drift.” 

None of this helped to settle her nerves. She couldn’t wait any longer, however, and had to know, once and for all, where they both stood.

Her chat with Curt had revealed so much. It also ticked her off and increased her motivation to implement her plan. As Carly suspected all along, Trent thought he was too old for her, and had the crazy idea she was too sweet and innocent for a guy like him.

There was eight years difference, which to her was nothing. And she intended to prove to him she might look sweet, but she was all woman, one who wanted to get naughty with her gorgeous badass, not nice, in the bedroom.

First, she had to set the wheels of her plan in motion, and only had ten minutes to do it.

Waving to Jana, she raced to the back, stopping long enough to pull a size six La Perla bodysuit from its rack and bring it with her. She had four-inch fuck-me heels and lace-topped standup stockings in her locker, along with her favorite perfume. This wouldn’t take long, but she still had to revive her hair and freshen her makeup. She glanced at the clock—t-minus nine minutes and counting.

She’d be cutting it close.