Married to My Stalker
In it, a tiny pothos vine curved from its ceramic pot, her little ritual of normalcy.
"Buckhead?" Nova asked, setting the can aside.
Damian nodded once. "Private club. It won't take long. I need to see one of my father's old men, and he won't talk on the phone."
Nova's eyes flicked to the antique watch on his wrist, then to the garment bag folded over the back of a chair. "That the kind of place with cigars and leather chairs?"
"And cameras with no recordings," Damian said. He walked toward her, softer now, slipping one hand behind her neck. "You'll be safe here. No one knows we're in the city, and the suite's secure."