Reeve (The Henchmen MC 11)

I was sure I had something appropriate to wear. I was sure of this because my mother had guilted me into attending some parties in her honor over the years, and had sent me 'appropriate' shoes and dresses to wear to the events.

Little black dresses weren't my personal style; I liked big, bold colors and patterns. But just this once, I was maybe a little excited to get a bit dolled up and shown off.I'll be ready.And I was.

At seven-forty, I was in a simple somewhat skintight black dress of some kind of magic stretchy material that was likely one-hundred percent synthetic. It kept a modest bodice, but was short on the thigh, making me wonder what in the world dress designers - and my fellow women - were thinking in allowing winter fashion to leave half your body bare.

But it did feel rather sexy to show some leg, even if mine were a mismatch of minor scars from a childhood of tree-climbing and animal taming.

The heels were, well, painful.

Six-inches and all strappy.

Gorgeous, gorgeous torture devices.

But I figured I would be spending almost the whole evening sitting down, so I could tolerate them for just this one night.

I left my hair down, never finding any other style that worked, and took the time to apply mascara and even troll Youtube until I learned how to line my eyes properly.

The whole thing said Take me now!

Which was precisely the vibe I was going for.

I heard Reeve's truck rumble up at five to eight, after I had sat in the living room for a good fifteen minutes, mildly freaking out.

Taking a deep breath as his door slammed, I made my way to greet him, opening the door with a little knot in my stomach I recognized - which was odd since it was not a feeling I recalled ever experiencing much before - as insecurity.

But then Reeve's eyes left my face to do a thorough up-and-down. And I mean thorough.

By the time his eyes finally made it back up to my face, all my skin felt heated, like his gaze scorched into me.

"Fuck, Rey," he said, shaking his head, eyes almost a little awestruck. And because of that, for just a short moment, all of the sadness was gone.

"You clean up nice too," I told him, letting my eyes drift over the perfect way his wide shoulders hung a suit jacket. He went with charcoal, which suited his light looks. And while I wasn't in-the-know about these sorts of things, it seemed perfectly tailored to fit him, not hanging like you see so many men wear their suits. He forewent the tie and even left his top button open, but the whole look was sleek and panty-melting.

"Almost regret making reservations," he admitted, reaching out to place a hand at my very lower back, a few of his fingers actually touching my ass, using it to pull me flush against his chest, making a swirling feeling move through my stomach.

"We don't have to go," I said, though my empty stomach was not pleased with the idea. "I can..." Whip something up. No, I couldn't. That was the agreement.

"Gotta wine and dine you," he told me, his other arm folding across my lower back as well, giving my whole body a squeeze. "It's the right thing to do."

He did that, too.

Wine and dine me.

He gave me a kiss that promised more, promised everything, enough that my knees forgot how they worked for a long minute before he led me to the truck and helped me in because the blasted shoes made it impossible to get up without flashing him.

Then he drove me to Famiglia, a place I had walked by countless times because I liked to check out the water it was perched over on summer nights when I would take the dogs for a walk around town. But I had never been inside.

It was every bit as gorgeous as I had been thinking with a wall made of wine bottles, sleek, dark decor, and these fancy booths in the back that had backs and sides that almost enclosed you into perfect privacy.

And one of those was what Reeve had reserved for us.

We were led there and then greeted just a moment later by one of the owners, a handsome older Italian man who Reeve had a short, very respectful and familiar conversation with.

"Friend of yours?" I asked when we were alone after the man ordered us some very nice wine.

"Ah, better to say business associate," he said, giving me a knowing look with a little raised brow, willing me to guess.

And, well, I might not have exactly been in the loop about the criminal underbelly. But this was Navesink Bank. Reeve was a gun supplier. This man owned an Italian restaurant. And they were business associates.