The problem is, now I want more of it. I can’t remember the last time I actually missed a man after he left. Jesse, maybe, but that was completely different. Jesse was a high school junior, I was a gangly sophomore, and that little fling of ours lasted only a couple of weeks before he broke it off for no good reason. And we never slept together during that time. Sometimes I think my hurt feelings were more about my own ego than my feelings for him, even though they were strong.

But Sebastian . . . I already crave the feel of his hands peeling away my clothes. I crave the way he so confidently took my body. I crave the sensation of his all-consuming presence.

For the short time that we were within the walls of that bathroom I didn’t care about anything else. I focused on nothing but him.

And then he ran.

I’m not stupid enough to believe that he’s going to ring this doorbell at ten a.m. today. In fact, I’m going to leave early.

“Hmm . . .” She frowns deeply, her eyes glued to the lemon tree.

“Hmm . . . what?”

She doesn’t respond. That’s not surprising, though. Dakota can be spacey at the best of times.

“Dakota!”

“He’s very guarded, isn’t he?”

“Understatement of the millennium.” I grab a blueberry-and-God-knows-what-else muffin from the plate she brought out. Given that she bakes almost every day, I’m going to put on weight living here. That’s probably a good thing, though.

“The aura that surrounds him is”—her face pinches up; here we go—“dark and troubled. He’s not at peace with himself.”

I’d love to dismiss what she says, but at the same time, I like getting someone else’s take on this odd bodyguard who strolled into my shop and insinuated himself into my life. “He was a soldier. He saw terrible things that he probably can’t forget.” Just like I saw a terrible thing that I can’t forget. “He served two tours in Afghanistan, and he’s got some nasty scars. So I’m not surprised if you think his aura is troubled.” I hear enough in the news about PTSD and other challenges for these soldiers who return. In fact, the common message seems to be that they never come back the same person they were when they left.

There’s this ginger-haired guy, Ross, who hangs out a lot on the corner near Pasquale’s sometimes. He was in the army. I don’t know what he was like before the Iraq War, but I’m guessing he wasn’t the angry drunk Fez occasionally gives free slices to now.

Sebastian’s much more put together than Ross, though. Aloof, yes. Closed off, yes.

But he also seems to be operating with principle, and purpose.

Right now, that purpose is me. At least it was, until last night when I let him fuck me.

Am I regretting it? No, that’s not what this is.

I’m just dreading the inevitable swift end.

“He carries a heavy burden on his shoulders,” Dakota adds. “I think you’ll be good for him. I can already see that he’s been good for you.”

I laugh. “Good for him? Dakota, we barely know each other. It’s already over. Done.”

“You’ll give him the space he needs in order to open up to you,” she says, as if I hadn’t just spoken, “and he will, eventually. He just needs to know that he can trust you with his darkness.” The heavy frown vanishes with a sudden, excited look. “Oh! And you should tell him how you feel about him. He’ll want to hear that.”

“Hi. Have we met?” I don’t tell guys how I feel about them. I don’t tell anyone how I feel about them.

She smiles. “Don’t be so afraid, Ivy.”

I need to get out of here. “Well, while he’s deciding what to do with his darkness, I’m going to be cleaning up glass and couch stuffing so I can sell Ned’s house before the bank forecloses. Actually, first”—I pull out Bobby’s business card, my anger flaring—“I’ve got a bone to pick with someone.”

“Have fun! I’ll see you and Sebastian here for dinner around six?”

I roll my eyes but don’t bother to deny Dakota her delusion, grabbing my purse and keys and heading out.

I’m guessing the two guys flanking Bobby are the brothers in Bobby and Brothers Towing and Automotive. Both are even bigger than he is.

I make a point of slamming my car door as I march toward the open garage doors.

“Ivy.” Bobby saunters over, the chain hanging off his stained work pants clattering with each step. “What are you doin’ here? Comin’ to check on your ink?” He holds out his arm to show me the brilliant colors that I filled in. It’s scabbing over nicely. “I drove by Black Rabbit yesterday.” His face scrunches up. “Man, why white? Ned would lose his shit if he saw that. It looks—”

“You lied to me,” I snap, cutting him off before he sends me into a panic over what’s happening at the shop. Given the auto shop behind me—in a run-down area of Daly City, where trees are sparse and litter plenty—is a grimy mix of cobalt blue and construction orange, I shouldn’t let his opinion sway me too much.

“Look at you, with your hands on your little hips.” He chuckles, giving me a once-over, like I’m some cute little kid.

I have the urge to punch him in the face, but I restrain myself.

Pulling a rag out from his back pocket, he casually wipes the oil from his hands. “So, what’re you goin’ on about now?”

“When I asked you if Ned owed one of your guys money and you said no, you were lying right to my face, weren’t you?”

A frown takes over his jovial expression as he glances over his shoulder at the other guys. “What have you heard?”

“That Ned had a sizable gambling debt with one of your guys.”

His boots drag over the gravel as he gets closer. “And who told you that?” His eyes aren’t nearly as soft, his face not nearly as friendly as it was a moment ago.

Maybe I shouldn’t have charged in here like this. I straighten my back. “The cops.”

He laughs. “Bullshit.” I guess the idea that the cops know about Iron’s internal affairs is crazy.

I hold his gaze until he realizes I’m not lying, and his grin falls off his face.

“Who told them?”

“You’ll have to ask Detective Fields that.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Ned didn’t owe us nothin’. Tell your detective he has a shitty source.”

The meaning behind his words, his inflection, isn’t lost on me. “Who did he owe, then?”

Bobby heaves a sigh, muttering something unintelligible to himself. “Ned was into it with a guy named Sullivan. He’s not Iron. He’s . . . an associate of ours, who sometimes joins our game nights.”

“What kind of ‘associate’?”

“A business one,” he answers vaguely.

I fold my arms over my chest. “Guns?”

“No.”

“Hookers?”

“No.”

“Drugs?”

He falters. “No.”

My stomach turns. So Ned owed money to a drug dealer. Hell, that’s worse than owing one of these bikers. “How much?”

Bobby sighs. “Two hundred and fifty g’s, originally. He paid up a hundred of that, but couldn’t get any more from the bank.”