SMACK!
I collide with something rock-solid.
Not the tile floor.
Infinitely worse.
A muscular chest.
His scent hits me first. Salt and spice and the allure of sin, as if he bathed in the ocean and then rolled in a barrel of whiskey. Because of course Cole Hartwell would smell like trouble you wanna drink straight from the bottle.
My hands have a mind of their own, flattening against his chest. I tilt my head back. His brunette hair is messy in a way that feels intentional, and his eyes—those insufferable, calm, steel-blue eyes—spark the second they land on my face.
Gah! That smirk.I owe him one and he knows it. Makes me want to punch him.
“Shit! My iPad!”
I’m on my knees, scanning the floor like I’ve lost a contact lens. My heart slams. That tablet holds my entire life: metrics, timelines, approvals. Without it, I am professionally dead.
Cole chuckles, lifting the device with a careless flick of his wrist. “Don’t panic. I caught it.” His smirk deepens. “AndI caught you. No need to thank me. Unless you want to.”
I snatch the device back, but my eyes linger.
Why are his forearms always out? And have they always been that muscular?
His biceps strain against his black T-shirt, begging to be set free. His ripped jeans tell a story of reckless choices and no remorse, and his boots? They yell, “I answer to instinct,” except now they’re baptized in green goo.
“Sorry about your—” I gesture vaguely at his feet.
“Leather,” he says cheerfully. “Built to take abuse.” His gaze travels slowly down to my chest. And stays there. His pupils widen.
I glance down at my once-white blouse, which has gone translucent. It’s clinging and shouting my most intimate secrets to a lobby full of strangers.
Tits-tastic.
In five seconds I’ve gone from“serious professional”to“meet my nipples.”
“It’s fine.” My voice squeaks. “I’m fine. This is soooo fine.” I’m a broken bobblehead who can’t stop nodding. “I mean, it’s a disaster—a full-blown, five-alarm disaster—but disasters are opportunities in ugly disguises! Totally fixable.”
“Sure.” His grin turns absolutely wicked.
“Oh, shut up,” I say as I maul my suitcase zipper. “Some of us come prepared for life. We don’t blindly Godzilla our way through everything.”
My fingers dig through layers of “just-in-case” items: extra production shoes, a bikini I absolutely will not wear, high-range walkies, three backup chargers(because a dead battery is a personal failure). I shove past my “Production Bible”(tabbed for her pleasure)and then…
A miniature fire extinguisher?What can I say, I saw a TikTok.
Cole lands beside me and, without asking, reaches in.
“What are you—”
He pulls something out.
Red. Lacy. Enormous.
My bra.
He stops breathing.
