She reminded herself that Dameon was first and foremost a client. And aside from the fact that he had nearly kissed her . . . and she’d nearly let him, he did have some right to know a few things.

“Erin was getting a divorce from her abusive ex. Went so far as to change her name and identity to get away from him.” Grace glanced up and saw Dameon’s smile fade. “He did in fact stalk her, found her, and nearly killed her.”

“Oh, God.”

“Erin was living in the guesthouse on Parker’s property. Parker and Colin are the ones who just got married. Colin was home then, but by the time they knew what was happening it was too dangerous for him to go in.”

“What happened?”

“Erin managed to get ahold of the gun he used against her. She survived. He didn’t.”

And before Grace even knew of the drama, Erin’s ex had manipulated his way into Grace’s life. It still made her sick every time she pictured the man. He’d kissed her. In fact, he was the last man who had kissed her.

“Are you okay?” Dameon stepped forward.

“It wasn’t that long ago. We’re all still raw. Colin’s a good guy. He’s just protective.”

Dameon walked back toward the kitchen. “Rightfully so.”

He tugged his coat on and retrieved the plans. “You sure I can’t talk you into dinner?”

“Dameon . . .”

“Next time.”

“Dameon . . . this isn’t . . . we shouldn’t—”

He opened the door and placed a hand on her back. “But we both know we almost did,” he said close to her ear.

Traffic leaving the Santa Clarita Valley wasn’t nearly as bad as the cars moving in the other direction. It still it took him over an hour to get to his condo and drop his wallet and keys on his kitchen counter.

Dameon could not stop thinking about Grace. She was a hundred percent different from the women he usually pursued.

She was so damn smart and witty. The need to laugh when in her presence was constant. The scene between her and her brother played like a boomerang video in his head.

And she’d told her friend about him.

When women told their friends about a man, that man was being thought about. Which was exactly what he wanted when it came to Grace.

He crossed to his liquor cabinet and decided he wasn’t in the mood to drink alone.

It was past time he had a night with the guys.

Omar picked up on the second ring. “Please don’t tell me you’re calling because we have problems.”

Dameon laughed. “I need that night at the bar. You in?”

“You buying?”

“O’Doul’s in thirty minutes?”

“Be there in twenty.” Omar hung up and Dameon jumped in the shower.

Twenty-five minutes later he waved at Omar from the doorway of the busy Irish pub. Christmas lights twinkled above the bar, and Irish music drifted in between the noise of the people. With dark wood and salty patrons, O’Doul’s was the kind of place no one who wanted to be seen went to. It was a simple place with decent beer on tap and lots of Irish whiskey.

He greeted the bartender by name and moved to the empty stool next to Omar. “I see you started without me.”

“I wasn’t sure if this was a beer night or shots.”

He pulled his jacket from his shoulders and placed it with Omar’s. “Let’s start with beer.”

Omar signaled the bartender, asking for another.

“So, what prompted this impromptu night out?”

Dameon took his seat. “There’s a woman.”

“And two shots of Jameson, Tommy,” Omar added.

Dameon had to laugh.

“I knew there had to be a girl involved. Who is she and why haven’t I heard of her before now?” Omar cut right to the chase.

“Her name is Grace and she’s an engineer with the city of Santa Clarita.”

Omar stopped his beer midway to his lips. “That’s why you’re going out there all the time. I knew there had to be a better reason than you micromanaging the team.”

Tommy gave Dameon his beer and brought over two shot glasses and filled them. “Throw some fish and chips in for me, will ya, Tommy?” Dameon asked.

“Make it two,” Omar added.

“Settling in for a long haul, are ya?”

“There’s a girl,” Omar said.

Tommy O’Doul was somewhere in his sixties and had owned the pub since it opened thirty years past. “Is this a celebration shot, or am I leaving the bottle so you can forget her?” he asked.

“Celebration shot,” Dameon told him.

Omar’s hand darted out and stopped Tommy from taking the bottle. “But you can leave the bottle since Dameon is buying.”

“What do you think this is, a date?”

“You did call and ask me out,” Omar said with a laugh.

Tommy waved them off, left the bottle, and walked away to put in their food order.

“Okay, keep talking. You obviously have things to say.”

“Have you ever met someone you just can’t stop thinking about?” Dameon asked before taking the first drink of his beer.

“Yeah. Then I sleep with them and forget their name.”

He rolled his eyes. “Which is why you are the first person I thought of when I wanted to come here tonight. I knew you weren’t busy.”

“I’m busy when I want to be,” Omar defended himself.

“Grace is different. She’s like this tight ball of confidence and humor. She’s trying so hard to deny our attraction.”

“Wait, what? Someone is denying the great Dameon Locke?”

“Yes . . . no, not really. She thinks it’s wrong since I’m working with the city right now. Conflict of interest.”

Omar rested an elbow on the bar and tipped his glass Dameon’s way. “She has a point. A conflict for her, not you. You said she was an engineer?”

“Yeah.”

“Not to sound sexist, but that’s odd, isn’t it? Most of the engineers we’ve dealt with are men. Stoic, humorless men.”

When Dameon took a second to think on it, Omar was right. “Analytical personalities. Comes with the job, I guess.”

“But not your Grace?”

“No . . . I mean, yes . . . analytical when she’s talking about her job and the project. Her mind is going a mile a minute. Like a ticker tape rolling constantly.” Dameon tipped his beer back. “But funny.”

“And hot, I’m guessing.”

The memory of tilting her head back, and the heat in her eyes. “Yeah. Not like Lena.” He’d dated Lena off and on for about a year. “Petite, curvy . . . has a girl-next-door thing going.”

“That doesn’t sound like your type at all.”

“Yeah,” he huffed. “She has a job.”

They both laughed, and Tommy stopped by and dropped off silverware.

“I have two problems, though,” Dameon said.

“Other than the fact that her boss might hold it against her if she’s seen messing with a client?”

“Okay, three problems.”

Omar pushed the shot glass Dameon’s way. “Problems require whiskey.”