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T he property was incredible.

Bigger than I’d assumed it would be. But I didn’t know the area at all. Verona sounded charming, though.

But that was just because of Shakespeare, I supposed. I’d tried to do some digging on Connor Callahan, but the second I did, I got a text from Pop asking me why I was looking into the man whose company took care of O’Doyle Industries’ security.

I’d closed the browser immediately and should have known better than to think incognito mode would mean jack shit to my father.

Googling for info on Connor wasn’t going to cut it. Anything I wanted to know, I would just have to ask the man himself. But that depended on how dinner went.

An icy breeze swept over me and through my coat, causing me to tremble. There was more snow on the ground here than down by my place, but that was to be expected.

I walked carefully across the stone pathway, taking in the bright lampposts that led the way to the enormous front door. They were whimsical, and I was charmed by that old world feel.

The house itself was more like a manse, made of slate stone with enormous windows and a black mahogany double door with steel doorknobs and an enormous keypad complete with a biometric pad.

It was the kind of thing Pop had installed on all our properties, which made sense, considering Connor was occupied in the same field.

Hmm.

I never really thought about that. About the similarities between my, well, between Connor and my father.

Both work in security.

Both with shady pasts.

Both were big.

Powerful, too.

But where Pop was a devoted family man, Connor was a bachelor at forty-two.

I wondered if he was looking to settle down. And if he was, what kind of woman would it be with?

I highly doubt he’d choose someone like me.

I gasped, hating the way my stomach churned just thinking about the tall, sleek woman Connor would someday have at his side.

I didn’t fit the image. Hell, I knew it was a role I would never play. I just had to keep reminding myself this was all a bit of fun. And if he’d called me here to say it was over, then I would leave with my shoulders straight and my head high.

I’d save the falling apart for when I was alone. See, that was the thing they didn’t tell you when you were raised to be a strong, independent woman.

They, whoever they were, often forgot to mention that being strong did nothing to negate emotions. You still had feelings, for fuck’s sake.

Sometimes you could lock them away, bury them deep. And sometimes they came oozing out of whatever internal compartment you tried to stuff them into.

Like magma seeping from the earth’s core.

Dammit.

I paused and sniffed, wiping the excess moisture from my eyes.

I hated it when I got sentimental. It was difficult, but I forced myself to stay in the present.

After all, nothing killed a person faster than miscommunications of thwarted hopes and dreams. I’d seen that with my own eyes.

It was best I waited to hear what the man had to say before I started spiraling down that particular rabbit hole.

Still frowning at the lack of holiday décor, I walked right up to the beautiful but plain entryway and steeled myself for what was to come. Still, I wondered.

Why is your house so cold, Connor?

But the answer was obvious. He was a man who lived alone, or so I assumed.

He had a business to run that demanded a lot of attention and time. I sincerely doubted Christmas was very much on his mind.

How fucking sad.

The door opened before I could lift my hand to press the buzzer, and I jumped. But the sound was drowned out by the hammering of my heart as my eyes locked onto his glittering onyx gaze.

Jesus, he looked good. Almost too handsome.

“Come in,” he murmured, dipping his chin.

His dark gaze roamed over me from head to toe, and I shivered in response. I couldn’t help how my body reacted to the man.

My stomach clenched and my blood heated. My pulse raced like a herd of galloping horses, and a sense of pure joy filled me just upon seeing him.

The man was simply so, so much .

I bit my lip, wondering at his frown, but dismissed it quickly as I took him in.

He wore a black shirt over gray slacks, dark gray shoes with red soles, and a pair of matching red suspenders.

A wide grin spread across my face even as heat danced up my spine.

Only Connor could pull that off and still look sexy as fuck.

His hair was mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it. And I wondered if he was stressed out.

The top three buttons of his shirt were open, gifting me with tantalizing glimpses of inked, bronzed skin. Causing my thoughts to take a carnal turn.

“Let me have your coat,” he said.

I nodded, turning around and allowing him to take it.

His tattooed hands moved with quick efficiency, as I imagined he did all things.

Lord knew, he proved it in the ways he touched me, bringing me to a boil with patient accuracy.

I thought I heard him curse, but when I faced him, he was already turning away to place my coat inside a hall closet.

I took the moment to look around at his space, hoping for a glimpse into the man himself.

The house exuded a sense of strength and simplicity. For all his care with his wardrobe, I kind of felt sad as I followed him down the hall.

I expected the focus to be on functionality and minimalism, but what was missing was warmth. The space seemed clinical almost.

Dry.

Muted.

It had none of the rich, deep color I’d thought he would have chosen for his palette. None of the style or panache he showed in his dress.

It was all charcoal grays and blacks. All the best materials. Everything so decidedly masculine.

Steel.

Wood.

Stone.

But no warmth. Nothing that said Connor Callahan lived here.

It was unfinished. Empty of emotion.

I shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked, frowning as he grabbed his cell phone, futzing with the heating system I assumed.

“No. Um, hey, is something wrong?” I asked and reached for his arm.

Connor’s spine stiffened, and he casually moved away, so I dropped my hand. Turning his back, he held a chair out for me at the large, imposing granite table in what I assumed was the dining room.

There were two covered plates sitting atop the black runner that crossed the table. With them were a bottle of red wine, a basket of fresh bread, a dish of butter, a couple of short, thick candles, and a single Rio Samba rose in a silver vase.

It was beautiful. A burning orange at its core with darker, reddish hues tinting the tips of the delicate petals.

It was that splash of color I’d been dying to see. A little bit of fire in the cold, gray house.

“Sit, Clementine,” he repeated, and I did.

Touching nothing, I waited for him to take the chair opposite me.

“Please, tell me what’s wrong, Connor,” I tried again.

“Wrong? Should there be something wrong, Clementine?” he asked.

“No, I mean. I don’t know.”

“Let’s eat,” he grunted.

Fine. If that was how he wanted to play, I could play, too.

I snorted and shook out my napkin. But Connor didn’t smile.

He lifted the cover off my dish, then his next, and placed them on the space to his right.

I inhaled the steaming bowl of pasta and sighed.

I hadn’t eaten since my early sushi lunch with the girls, and I was famished. But I couldn’t shake the feeling something was up with him.

“Don’t you like it?” he asked.

“Pasta? Yeah, I like pasta. But that’s not what this is about, is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he lied, and that pissed me off.

If he wanted to end this thing, he could man up and just say it, for fuck’s sake.

I crossed my arms across my chest, drawing his gaze to the cleavage I had on display, and that just seemed to make me even angrier.

“Stop it, Connor. Just tell me what’s going on?”

“Going on? I’ll tell you what’s going on. Who the fuck is Andrew?” he demanded, slamming his palms down on the table.

“Andrew?” I paused.

My heart started hammering, and I had to work to control my emotions. I was already on edge, but now I was simply stunned and more than a little confused.

I should have done more. I’m so sorry, Andrew.