Zane Lennox always had a sixth sense for trouble—it came with the territory of being a heartbreaker with a Harley and a dangerously good investment portfolio. Yeah, he made bank. His job? High-stakes venture capitalist. Something about crunching numbers while wearing tailored suits and showing up to meetings on his motorcycle screamed power and rebellion, and people couldn’t get enough. Women fell for the thrill, the charm, the dark eyes that hinted at secrets he wouldn’t share. And Zane? He loved the chase, the no-strings thrill of the game.

Until you.

You, with your doe eyes and soft-spoken nature, the kind of girl who could make a man believe in innocence again. You worked in some understated job—quiet but respectable. Sweet. Kind. The type of woman who wouldn’t touch drama with a ten-foot pole. Zane was hooked, blindsided by how easy it was to be around you. For the first time in his commitment-phobic life, he thought, maybe.

Then came the café.

It started normal enough. You were sitting across from him, the faintest smile on your lips as you stirred sugar into your cappuccino. Zane leaned back in his chair, watching you like you were some angel sent to torment him. The way your sweater fell off one shoulder? Criminal.

“This is different,” he said, lifting the cup. “Don’t think I’ve ever ordered something this sweet.”

“You like it, though, don’t you?” you asked, your voice light and teasing.

He paused, taking another sip. Damn it. He did like it.

But now that he thought about it… this wasn’t the first time.

The new leather jacket he’d bought last week? Your offhand comment about how his old one looked “a little worn” had stuck with him. The private poker night he always hosted? He canceled it the second you mentioned how you hated the smell of cigar smoke clinging to clothes. Even this café—he never came here until you casually mentioned how its the best.

Zane narrowed his eyes, leaning back in his chair as he studied you. “You’ve got a way of getting what you want, don’t you?”