She laughed as he made his way back outside to bring in the rest of his supplies. He organized the setup with a ruthless precision that surprised her. For some reason, she’d pictured him as a sloppy worker, but he examined every piece of his equipment, from brushes to sander, and created a kind of assembly line. She scooped up her coffee and headed toward her table.

“Gonna hang out with me today?” he asked.

“If that’s not a problem, yes. I have a ton of work to do and won’t get in your way.”

“I’d love company. Just one problem.”

She prepped for a flirty, meaning-laden comment. “What’s that?”

“I need music.”

“Oh. Well, that’s okay, I can put on the jukebox or Pandora radio.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Why was his face turning a light shade of pink? “I have particular music I like listening to while I work, and not everyone appreciates it.”

She tilted her head in consideration. “Is it, like, blackmail material?”

“My brother Cal would say so, but he’s always lacked true taste.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “Do your worst. I won’t say a word.”

“You swear?”

“Yes, I swear.”

He considered her words, then nodded. “You’re now in the circle of trust. Once you’re in, you can never be released.”

“Kind of like marriage?”

“Smart-ass.”

She laughed again and sat down. He took his phone out, swiped at the screen, and the strains of NSync belted out in high-energy, poppy form. Her eyes widened in surprise, but Raven didn’t say a word. He cut her one warning glance, then focused on his work.

Raven decided to do the same.

Problem was, she couldn’t.

A strange thing happened during the Backstreet Boys’ greatest hits—had they really actually had enough songs to do a greatest hits album? Her attention kept getting tugged away from inventory and upcoming work shifts and toward Dalton Pierce’s ass.

He leaned over the bar, denim stretched tight, powerful hands stroking the wood like a lover. Fascinated, she watched him walk slowly down the length of the massive mahogany front, palms coasting, lips moving in a whisper of sound she couldn’t hear, as if he was speaking to the wood. Face set in concentration, he seemed in another world, a look of blissful peace radiating from his eyes. At one point, she let herself stare, wondering why he seemed like more of a puzzle than she’d originally thought. Each movement was coordinated with grace and an odd sort of poetry, whether he was sanding down the surface, scraping and chiseling out the bumps, or soothing the wood with soft strokes.

The scents of sawdust and varnish and oils filled the air. She didn’t even realize it was past lunchtime until she forced herself out of her voyeuristic daze and looked at the clock.

He’d never even taken a break.

Rising, she rotated her stiff neck and walked toward him. “You missed lunch.”

He startled at the sound of her voice, blinking. “Huh?”

“Lunch. You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m good. In the zone.”

She shifted on her feet. “Oh. Well, I brought sandwiches for us already. You can join me. To eat. For lunch.”

Pure interest flashed in his gaze. “A lunch date, huh?”

Raven blew out a breath. “It’s a roast beef hero, dude. Don’t get excited.”

“That’s my favorite sandwich ever!”

She rolled her eyes and walked into the kitchen. Retrieving the subs, she took out some potato salad and chips, arranged them on plates, and brought them back out to the table. “Soda or water?”

“Water, please.”

She grabbed two bottles of Fiji, put them on the bar, and reached for glasses.

When she turned back around, he stared at her with an open look of horror. “What? What happened?”

He lunged for the bottles and tore them off the bar, studying the two wet rings on the surface. Uh-oh. A fine sheen of sweat gleamed on his forehead, and his golden hair was all mussed, looking like he’d just tumbled out of bed. His voice dropped to a sexy growl of sound. “Did you just place water bottles on my bar?”

His bar? She blinked. He’d turned from a relaxed, easy-mannered flirt into a man with a hard expression and buckets of arrogant dominance. Like when he was working on something it belonged to him, and he was deliciously possessive and in charge. Her nipples twisted into hard points under her tank in an instant. “Yeah. Sorry.”

He flicked his gaze from the wet surface back to her. “Forgot to tell you about the number one rule.”

Her mouth went dry. “You have rules?”

“That’s right. When I’m working on a piece, no touching. Only I get to touch.”

His eyes darkened with intensity, as if he was talking about something more than the bar. She struggled to ward off the sparks of sexual chemistry thrown from his figure. Holy Lord, this man was hot when he got all grumpy and OCD. No intelligent answer came to her brain, so she went with the only word she could remember. “Okay.”

“This includes my tools.”

Oh. My. God.

Had her gaze dropped to his crotch? Had he caught it? The flared light in his eye said maybe.

“My tools are sacred, and they can be dangerous if misused. I also have a careful system, and I dislike when things are out of order. I like to know exactly where my tools are at all times so they can be used to benefit everyone involved. Understood?”

Was he playing her? Raven snapped her teeth together and decided she wasn’t brave enough to find out. She took a step back and threw up her hands. “Fine! I won’t touch the bar or your tools, crazy man. Can we take it down a notch and eat now?”

“Yes. As long as we understand each other.”

She fought a shudder and marched back to the table, sliding into her seat. He washed his hands and joined her there. He switched back to his easygoing way again. “This is really nice of you,” he said. “Not many clients offer up lunch. I usually bring my own, but I rushed out this morning and forgot.”

Shame burned. She’d only done it to have an opportunity to grill him, and now he made her feel bad. Dammit. “It’s no big deal, I own a restaurant. You made a lot of progress already.”

He dug into his sandwich, groaning with ecstasy. “Why does food taste so much better when someone else makes it?”