For the second time that day, I was at a loss for words. Then I remembered the outbuildings. “I noticed you tore down Donovan’s house.”

He lifted his gaze until it locked with mine. “He’s alive because he left town. His house chose to stay. It paid the price.”

I laughed. “Fair enough. And you bought Dad’s bar?” The astonishment I felt filtered into every word.

“Yeah, about that,” he said, hedging, “I’m going to have to charge you a pretty penny for those offices. That’s prime real estate. And there are some late fees that will have to be worked out.”

“Reyes, I don’t know what to say. Did you buy anything else I need to know about?”

“I didn’t. But you’ve been spending money like it’s going out of style.”

“Why? What else did I buy?”

“You’re living in it.”

“You bought my apartment?”

“No, you bought your apartment. Well, the whole building, actually.”

“I have an apartment building?” After a minute, I looked back at him. “I am so raising your rent.”

The kitchen door crashed open. We turned to see one of the young prep cooks leaning out of it.

“Um, Reyes?” he said, nervous. “You might want to – I mean there’s something —” He pointed into the kitchen.

“I’ll be right there,” Reyes said—then he looked back at me. “I have to get to work before I burn the place down.”

I nodded. “I just don’t know what to say.”

He closed the distance between us, his heat winding around me like a red-hot ribbon, and whispered into my ear. “Say yes.”

He turned and walked away. I watched. He was just ridiculously cute in that long apron. It framed his ass just so.

“Wait,” I called out, “do you have a Ferrari?”

He tossed me a wicked grin from over his shoulder. Holy cow, I would say yes to anything that man had to ask, unless he asked about butt sex. I had to draw the line somewhere. Speaking of which, say yes to what? I reconstructed our conversation and came up with nothing. Clearly I missed something. I tended to do that. Freaking ADD.

I turned back to the menial task requirements of my most recent pink-collar position and noticed a sticky note on the bar. The one he’d had in his hands. That man loved Post-its. I read the note, thought about it, tried to absorb its true meaning, its deeper message, then read it again before turning toward the kitchen and shouting, “Marry you?”