Emma stared at the horizon beyond the railing of the balcony, the surprisingly warm autumn breeze snaking under her loose hair and tickling her bare shoulders. Then she shifted her gaze to the phone she’d left on the glass table near the French doors. It hadn’t made a sound since she’d texted Dean almost an hour ago. Then again, not everyone was glued to their phones the way she was. In her line of work, people freaked out if she didn’t answer within seconds, but she imagined some people probably went hours without responding to a text.
Unless Dean was purposely ignoring her. She wouldn’t even blame him, considering she’d all but shoved him out the door yesterday. But it wasn’t as if she’d spent the rest of the night enjoying herself—being on the phone for hours trying to fix another one of Lorenzo’s screw-ups was the furthest thing from fun.
It was becoming glaringly obvious neither Stella nor Lou the bodyguard were capable of handling Enzo on their own, which meant Emma needed to sit down with Lorenzo and hammer some sense into that stupid pretty head of his. Bad enough he’d blown off those interviews—now he was causing chaos during the interviews he actually bothered showing up for. Thanks to the inappropriate comments he’d made to the reporter from Vogue, two of the major department stores that sold Fire and Ice designs were threatening to stop carrying the line, and Emma wasn’t sure she’d managed to pacify the irate owners.
She also wasn’t sure she could deal with this bullshit anymore. She already suffered from anxiety and had the tendency to overthink things, so the added stress courtesy of Lorenzo was turning her into a bundle of panicky nerves.
Damn it, why wasn’t Dean texting back?
Maybe he’s not interested in being booty-called, a little voice taunted.
“Bullshit,” Emma murmured to herself, because from what Suz had told her, Dean Colter had invented booty calls.
Which, if she were being honest, still startled her a bit. The boy she’d known in high school had been sweet and patient and, frankly, a one-woman kinda guy.
And she had been his one woman.
So how did a man who’d remained a virgin until he was nineteen—because he wanted to wait until his girlfriend was ready—turn into the Manwhore of the Bay Area?
And…oh Lord, where had he learned to dirty-talk like that? She hadn’t expected him to be so filthy, but she wasn’t complaining, either. Dean’s sexual confidence had only fueled her own, and Emma honestly couldn’t remember ever being as vocal and uninhibited as she’d been last night.
Her gaze drifted to her phone again, but the damn thing refused to ring. Swallowing her disappointment, she refocused on the view of the bay and tried not to dwell on how lonely she was. When had her life become solely about putting out all the fires Enzo started?
The sound of the doors opening behind her had her spinning around in a whirl of panic, but the moment she laid eyes on the figure standing at the entrance of the balcony, her anxiety faded.
And her pulse raced.
“What are you doing here?” she squeaked.
Dean stepped forward, his gray eyes gleaming with appreciation as he swept his gaze over her outfit—a loose white T-shirt that barely covered her thighs. “I’ve been knocking on your door for the past ten minutes. When you didn’t answer, I decided to let myself in.”
Emma narrowed her eyes. “The door was locked.”
He tipped his head mischievously. “Was it?”
For a second she wondered if she’d forgotten to lock it, but no, she was super anal about her safety, and she never forgot to lock the front door. Which meant… “Did you pick the lock?” she demanded, torn between laughing and scowling.
That earned her a shrug, but the slight curve of his lips told her she’d guessed correctly.
“How did you even know I was here?”
“Because your text said come over. I would’ve texted back but my phone died right after I got your message and I was in too much of a hurry to charge it.”
She was about to point out that breaking into a woman’s suite wasn’t the way to score points, but then her gaze registered what he was wearing, and she got side-tracked. Emma gave the long trench coat a once-over before meeting his eyes. “Were you out solving crimes before you came here?”
“Nope.” He shut the French doors and walked toward her, stopping when they were two feet apart. “But I couldn’t give you what you wanted without doing some improvising. Getting arrested tonight wasn’t part of the plan.”
She blinked in confusion. “I have no idea what you’re…” She trailed off when she noticed bare shins and ankles poking out of his beat-up white sneakers. Laughter bubbled up and escaped in a rush. “Oh my God. Are you naked under that thing?”