“I didn’t set out a bra either.” John runs one of his palms over my back. He should be feeling smooth cotton. “Trella,” he groans. “What are you doing to me?” His mind isn’t on his challenging childhood now.
I tilt my head back and meet his gaze. “I’m managing you, sir.” I laugh.
John chuckles. “Actions have consequences.” He tugs on the bill of my baseball cap. “Remember that, love.”
Love. My smile wavers. Does he love me? Before I can ask, the vehicle slows and all of the mirth fades from John’s face.
“You won’t leave my side today,” he commands. “If the situation becomes unsafe, we’re leaving, no questions asked.”
“I understand.” I understand everything. He’s showing me a slice of himself, a part he doesn’t share with many people, a rare vulnerability. He needs me by his side, to help him through this.
John exits the sedan first, scanning our surroundings, and he reaches for me. His men are positioned casually around us, not so close as to draw attention but near enough to secure the area.
The building looming in front of us is old and depressingly institutional, the address listed on John’s comprehensive online biography. Two of the giant gray numbers are missing, their outlines permanently etched in the red brick. Windows are cracked, covered with silver duct tape or clear fixative.
There are no balconies, no flowers, no green space. Every surrounding inch is paved, the patches of black asphalt forming a continual industrial quilt. Squealing children fight over one dirty basketball, playing in the streets around the parked cars. Broken bottles litter the space, the jagged pieces of glass crunching under my boots.
John would have played in these streets also, risked being cut by the glass and hit by passing vehicles. I could have lost him decades ago. I glance at the silver scars around his neck. I came very close to losing him. If he hadn’t survived his childhood, I would have remained alone, not knowing love, not knowing him.
I squeeze John’s hand, overcome with gratitude. He squeezes back, his gaze on the building, on his childhood home, his lips flat and his expression grim. He doesn’t have to say anything. I feel his dread as though it was my own, the feeling growing with each passing second.
“Are you ready?” I whisper, my words meant for his ears only.
“No,” John admits. He wraps one of his arms protectively around my waist and takes a deep ragged breath, his chest pushing against my back. “But this has to be done.” He surges forward, taking me with him.
Chapter Nine
Two and a half hours later, I trudge up the stairs. John follows me closely, his right palm resting on the small of my back. One of his men walks in front of us. We don’t speak, John having explained to me how voices carry, drawing unwanted attention. Small talk can be dangerous in this neighborhood and my billionaire isn’t taking any chances.
The stairwell is disgustingly dirty, smelling of urine and vomit. Liquor bottles are scattered on every landing. Taking the elevator isn’t an option. John claims it has been broken since he lived here.
I can’t believe this was once his home. This building is so different from Powers Corporation’s modern, immaculately clean head office. It hurts my heart to think of him spending his formative childhood years amidst the crime and grime.
The hired muscle opens the door to the roof and a blast of fresh air sweeps over the space. I hasten my pace, my calves burning, my lungs tight.
More men are positioned around the rooftop. Two lounge chairs are placed by a small table. A cooler holds bottles of water. A pizza box is set on the table.
I pace along the perimeter of the roof. Although the surface is as shabby as the rest of the building, the sky is a gorgeous shade of blue and the view is breathtaking.
“This is amazing.” I link my fingers with John’s and gaze out at the city.
“This place kept me sane,” he confesses. “I came here to escape everything else.”
I’ve seen some of his everything else, the tiny, damp apartment with the thin walls, the frighteningly dark hallways, the even more scary common areas. I heard the yelling and screaming, the rustling of rodents running between the drywall. I smelled the oil herb scent of marijuana, felt the grease on the hand railings. I faced this hardship today with John, buffered by his presence. He faced it for years alone, his childhood making him tough and strong.
I lean into the wind. “Up here, everything is possible.”
“Yes,” John agrees. We stand side by side, not speaking, the quiet comfortable.
My stomach growls and my face heats. “I hope that pizza box isn’t merely for show.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.” My boss chuckles, leading me to the makeshift dining area. He extracts a bottle of water out of the cooler and splashes some of the liquid over his fingers. “Hold out your hands.”
The cool water flows over my fingers. “I see this is a fancy joint,” I tease, rubbing my palms together.
“Only the best for my girl.” John’s brown eyes glitter. I am his girl. Today has proven this. “Thank you.” His voice is soft, sincere.
“Thank me with pizza.” I flip the lid open, lightening the mood. The scent of tomato and oregano fills my nostrils, drawing another embarrassing rumble from my stomach.
“Do you need a plate?” John offers me a paper plate.
“For thin-crust pizza? Nah,” I scoff. “I’ll risk the anger of my fellow Torontonians and eat it New York style.” I fold the slice in two and nibble on a corner. “Oh my God.” I moan, the cheese melting in my mouth. “This is so good.”
“Give me a taste.” John bites into my slice.
“Hey, get your own slice.” I tug the pizza away from him.
“I want your slice.” He lunges forward and grabs my wrists. “And what I want, I get.” He forces me to feed him, his eyes sparkling with humor.
“You get what you want with my assistance.” I twist out of his grip. “Who has the slice now?” I crow, waving the crust under his nose. He pounces on me and we roll around on my lounge chair, taking bites out of the slice until there’s nothing left.
Our skirmish ends with me lying on top of John, his muscles under my curves, his palms resting on my denim-clad ass, both of us breathing heavily. I brace myself upward and gaze down at him. “You like to share meals.” It doesn’t matter what I’m eating for lunch, my boss wants half of it.
“My mom and I would share slices of pizza, ice cream cones, and any other treats we had.” John’s face softens. He doesn’t say it but I know, having seen his childhood apartment, they shared food because they couldn’t afford more.
“And now you share these treats with me.” I reach over and grab another slice of pizza.
“I only share them with you.” John meets my gaze.
He shares food with me because he loves me. A hard lump of emotion forms in my throat. “Here.” I shove the slice into his mouth, covering up my reaction.
My hungry man devours my clumsy offering and I happily feed him another slice. We eat and cuddle and talk, stretching out on the lounge chair, the blue sky above us, the sun’s rays warming our bodies.
A companionable silence falls upon us. John strokes my back, drifting his fingertips up and down, up and down. His gaze is unfocused, his brown eyes sad and soulful. He’s thinking of his past again.
I touch his face, capturing his attention. “Today took tremendous strength. Your mom would have been proud of you,” I assure my billionaire. “I’m proud of you.” I cover his lips with mine.
He opens to me, allowing me to control our kiss. I explore his mouth, tasting all of him. Our tongues touch and I retreat. He follows, pursuing me, and we play, finding joy in the middle of a stressful day, sanctuary in an urban war zone.