Lock You Down (Rivers Brothers 2)

I couldn't have been more wrong.

I went from being alone much of the time to having someone to share meals with, someone to ask about my day, someone to fight over TV show selections with, someone to curl up to in bed.

My life had been good before, but having Nixon there made it better than I could have anticipated.

Feeling his arms close around me, hold on tight, as I tried to process an event he hadn't approved of in the first place, well, it just showed me how good of a man he was underneath all the sarcasm and eye rolls.

"It's going to be alright," he assured me as he tucked me into bed. "You'll get him next time."

Except the next time, Michael didn't show up. And the time after that, it was so crowded he didn't even see me there. And the time after that, I'd been cornered by an old friend of my father's who wouldn't let me slip away.

It became almost a normal, boring part of life.

I worked. I spent time with Nixon. I ran errands. I got scratched by Mal. And I got dressed and went to charity functions alone, hoping Michael would corner me.

I knew as I walked up the paver driveway that easily cost a couple hundred grand that the valet was actually one of Lo's guys, that two of the caterers were hers as well, that the woman in the understated black dress and icy blue eyes was there to keep an eye on me too. I also knew that the van parked across the street with the local water company's logo on it was actually where Lo and one of the other guys were watching the cameras the caterers had discreetly placed around the common areas of the house. I also was very aware that the fitness watch on my wrist was listening to every word I uttered.

This was the event I was least looking forward to. At least the art show allowed me to look at some interesting pieces, inwardly wondering what Nixon would think of each, since he was so wholly horrified by the one piece of art I owned. And the charity fundraiser supported a good cause.

This? This was just a dinner party full of rich people who liked to talk to other rich people who were going to criticize the canapé and the wine.

It was the kind of thing I used to enjoy. Back in my old life. With my old people. Now, though, I couldn't help but start to see things through Nixon's eyes as well as my own, cringing each time someone commented about the new yacht they were having built or how many maids they had gone through that year.

I nursed a white wine, hanging on the fringes of conversations since I only knew the hosts through a friend of a friend, and didn't know a single other person at the event.

"You look bored out of your mind," a familiar voice said behind my left shoulder, breath warm on my neck, sending a shiver up my spine.

"I... yeah, a little," I admitted, trying to keep my voice low, sweet, not let my sudden anxiety creep out from between my lips.

"You're new to this crowd," Michael went on as I turned, swallowing hard when I noticed he didn't bother to take a step back, just continued standing far too close given our distant relationship.

"Yeah. I've been so busy working, getting my business turned around, that I've let my social calendar lapse. I finally started going out last month. It's been... awkward," I added, lacing some truth in with the lie.

"Well, luckily, you've run into an old friend," he said, giving me a smile that made my stomach turn sour.

"It's amazing that we ended up in the same place!" I agreed, smiling saccharine sweet.

"You look well, princess," he said, and I felt my spine stiffen, having to concentrate to relax each vertebra until my posture relaxed again.

"Thanks, Mr. McDermot," I said, head dipping. It likely looked shy, demure, sweet, but it was actually the only way to hide the revulsion in my face.

"Michael," he corrected, fingers touching my hand, making my gaze shoot up. "Let me take this for you," he told me, removing the wine glass from my hand. "I'll grab you a refill," he added, flagging down the closest server, taking one of the white wine glasses from his tray, bringing it back toward me.

I took it in numb fingers, offering a polite thank you.

"How have your parents been?"

"They're good. Trying to downsize some of their properties. I think they are realizing they don't need five different houses in the continental U.S."

"They're keeping their main place in California though, surely."

My parents had bought a little shack on the beach several years before I was even born, knocking it down, rebuilding their dream home. Mansions popped up around them, but no one had the square footage of shore frontage. Those that even came close would set a new buyer back a cool forty million. Everyone was always waiting for them to decide to downsize, to move, to put that amazing property on the market.