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“I can hear you,” comes an irritated British voice.

I straighten as Harrison makes his way across the floor, his dark suit fitting his form to perfection.

The little tremor starts in my stomach, spreads lower into a tingling between my thighs and up to my breasts. I’m a teenager thinking dirty thoughts about the bad boy in school. The older one who’s the kind of trouble you’d risk everything for.

Since Ibiza, the memories faded a little every week, until I could get through almost a day without remembering his scent, his presence, the way he looked at me as if I were a piece of fine art.

Now, it’s roaring back.

“Oh good. I thought I might have to speak louder,” Leni responds as he stops in front of us.

“Don’t you have a job to do?” Harrison gripes.

“Sure, boss.” She winks before offering me a fist bump. “Good to see you. We need to go surfing sometime. Girls’ day.”

The next moment, she’s gone and it’s Harrison and me. We might be surrounded by construction workers, but the pull between us is electric.

My attention drags over every perfectly tailored inch of him. “What would it take for you to ditch the suit? Global wool shortage? Zombie apocalypse? Male menopause?”

“I’m pleased to hear your interest in getting me out of my clothes hasn’t waned.” Warmth dances in his eyes, and I feel it everywhere. It’s impossible not to respond to this man.

“I said I’d talk about opening a club. Which, by the way, this is far from.”

“Good thing I have a talent for seeing what things could be.”

Is he still talking about the club?

“There need to be lines.” I nod toward the tape on the floor.

“Some boundaries are legitimate. Others are notional, have zero grounding in reality, and are simply erected to protect things not worth protecting.” He crosses the line of tape without a second look. “I won’t play by made-up rules. Yours or anyone else’s.”

Those lashes are a mile long, and I’m caught between staring at them and his firm mouth.

“What’s with the dog?”

I jerk back, realizing he was looking at my feet.

“Ernie’s Beck’s. He had surgery, and I didn’t want to put a cone on him. Beck has a busy day at the studio, and E doesn’t like hanging out in the trailer, plus the PAs don’t have time.”

“You’re living with Beck.” His gaze sharpens.

“Careful. I’ll put a cone on you.”

Harrison leans in. “I’d like to see you try.”

If I told myself I’d exaggerated the power of what was between us in Ibiza, I was wrong. He might not be the happy-ever-after kind, but Harrison King and I have a boatload of chemistry.

A forty-five-meter yacht’s worth and then some.

“So, according to Leni, you’re praying this behemoth will be a club?”

He folds his arms. “In six months,” he confirms. “And there’s no prayer involved.”

“Really? Because when my brother, Kian, built his medical practice from scratch, there was a shit ton of zoning and permitting and paperwork, none of which is easy here, where ‘not-in-my-backyard syndrome’ is elevated from a pastime to a full-on passion.”

His eyes darken dangerously, and I raise a brow.

“I never knew you were acquainted with real estate development. It’s distractingly sexy.”