I pull into the parking garage underneath the building where the guys live. Randy the older gentleman who manages all of The Westlake's security is already outside waiting for me.

"I can't believe it," he says, his smile so genuine I feel guilty for not visiting sooner. "I was starting to worry I'd die of old age without having the chance to see your pretty face again."

I smile and open my door so the gentleman working the valet can move my car and step into Randy's waiting arms. He signals another young man to collect my bags as we approach the entrance.

"What are you talking about, old man? You're the only reason I came." I link my arm with his when he offers it to me.

"If only I were so lucky. Now. Tell me. How have you been, my dear?"

"Good. Just. . . busy." The largest brand I collaborate with just announced that they've partnered with the NFL to produce official apparel and accessories for all the teams. "Tori Rae has this new collection they're about to start promotions for."

"And they want you to help with that?"

"Yes. It's going to be a massive collaboration though. I'm a little nervous."

"None of that." He grins, tipping his head in a silent hello as a couple exit and head toward the valet. "Speaking of nerves. I couldn't help but notice there was a cleaning service headed up to the 44th floor yesterday. I think someone has the guys a little rattled."

Should I tell him I feel the same way?

We reach the large gold-brushed aluminum double-doored entrance where Randy quickly enters the code and ushers me inside. The security here has always been strict as a lot of Dallas's social elite call The Westlake home. It still amazes me how well off the guys are to be able to afford to live in a place like this. Where there's someone to park your car and carry your bags. And where the loft they own isn't a loft but, in all actuality, the entire 44th floor.

The space itself was originally designed to be three separate living areas, but after the sale went through, they managed to get approval to remodel the whole level into one massive floor plan. One with four separate bedrooms equally distanced so they can still maintain their privacy. Two living areas, a fully equipped game room, gym, and kitchen—one I'd sell my left kidney to have.

Still, what makes their loft so unique is the massive, enclosed balcony they paid extra to be able to build onto the building's original structure where a pool and hot tub could go. Because what good is a home when there's not a feature that requires women they bring home to strip?

Hope the cleaners shocked the pool while they were here too.

Randy hits the button to call the elevator. "I can't help but notice you're minus one irritable doctor today. Is he meeting you here?"

"Irritable? Really?" I shake my head, laughing. "No, he's out of town for some medical convention."

"Ah, so that's the reason you're able to come see me today."

I shrug because he's not wrong.

James only came here with me a handful of times over the last year, and he complained after each visit. He called it the ultimate bachelor pad. Which, fair. It's very much a bachelor pad. But in some ways, I think it had more to do with the abundance of luxury and the in-your-face feel their loft can seem to those who were raised under more humble circumstances. 

Not to say James's family doesn't have money, they do. It's just nowhere near the extent the guys have it. Something that took me a long time to get used to, as well. Especially when my mother and I lived in a small three-bedroom home in a cookie-cutter neighborhood, surviving paycheck to paycheck. I could make a cookbook with all the ways you can dress up ramen.

The elevator finally arrives when the doors slide open, and we step inside. The guy carrying my bag barely clears the door before Randy presses the button to start moving.

"Gotta keep up, kid." Randy scoffs.

I bite my lip to hide my smirk. I forgot how childish the old man can be. He would have happily left the poor guy to take the stairs. Old age aside, Randy's still very much young at heart. His favorite pastime is finding ways to make his employees work trying to keep up with him.

He pats my hand, drawing my attention to his pale blue eyes. He hesitates, no doubt looking for a sign there might be more to the story. But either I've gotten better at keeping secrets, or Randy is having an off day. He nods to the digital screen where I see the levels tick by as the elevator begins to slow to a crawl the closer we are to the guys' loft. The anxious energy I've been carrying around all day, ramps up with each floor we pass, making my stomach twist. It's been over a month since I've seen the guys. What if they can't forgive me?

As if sensing the change in my mood. Randy rubs his thumb over the back of my hand. "Everything will be okay, dear."

If he says so.

"I know it will."

I roll my eyes. Okay. Maybe he hasn't completely lost his ability to read people. Doesn't make it any less annoying when he does. No wonder the guys can't get away with shit when he's here. Something that makes my life easier. Or, did. It's hard to know how I feel when I've spent the last year hyperfocused on making things work with James. Yielding to his version of how my relationship with the guys should be. Making sure they know where the wall stands between us and never letting them step over it. He didn't trust that I wouldn't give in and let them have whatever they wanted. Even if that something is me.

I wonder what James would say now that I'm about to tear down this wall of his and break all the rules? Consequences be damned.

I just hope I'm not too late.