"Him." I pointed, not caring how unhinged I looked. "The pervert. The hand sanitizer guy. From the market. He grabbed my chest and called my coffee a weapon. What is he doing here?"
Miles looked at the man. Then at me. Then back at the man. Then he took a breath.
"Him, are you sure?" he asked.
"Yes. Him. Wait, do you know him?"
Something clicked behind his eyes. Miles let out a long breath through his nose, like a man finishing math he didn't want the answer to. "Oh." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well. Hell."
"What? What does that mean? Why do you look like that?"
He didn’t answer. He just started walking toward the corner office where the gray-eyed stranger had disappeared, and I followed because I didn’t know what else to do, my coffee going cold in my hand, dread building with every step.
Miles pushed the door open.
The office was immaculate. Everything in its place, organized with a precision that bordered on obsessive. Clean desk, aligned pens, a laptop positioned at an exact angle. And behind it, standing with his back to us, was the man from the market. He’d changed his shirt since Saturday, obviously, but the posture gave him away—that same rigid, coiled control.
He turned around.
Saw me.
His face went through recognition, disbelief, and what I could only describe as existential horror, all in the space of about two seconds.
"You," I gasped.
"You," he said.
Same time. Same tone. Same complete and utter dread.
His eyes went from my face to Miles to my face again. I watched his hands curl at his sides. Watched him take one stepbackward, like putting distance between us would undo the last forty-eight hours.
"Miles." His voice was low and very, very controlled. "What is this?"
Miles said, stepping between us with the energy of a man defusing a bomb, "This is your new executive assistant." He placed a hand on my arm and looked at me. "Anna, I’m gonna need you to stay calm when I say this."
"Say what?"
"This is Jace Hunter. My brother." He paused. Let it land. "Your new boss."
Nobody moved.
I stared at Jace across his pristine office. My new boss. The man whose lips I’d accidentally kissed two days ago, whose hand had accidentally grabbed my chest, who had sanitized himself like I was a biohazard and told me to never cross his path again. And here I was. Crossing his path. In his office. Where I would be working. Every single day.
And underneath all of it—quiet, unwelcome—my lips still remembered how soft his mouth was.
CHAPTER 3
Jace
My week was going well until Saturday.
Specifically until eleven forty-seven a.m. on Saturday, when a woman at the Wynwood Farmers Market collided with me from behind, drenched me in iced coffee, crashed her mouth into mine, got my hand onto her chest, and called me a pervert. I left with a ruined linen shirt and the annoying detail that her lips tasted like vanilla.
I hadn’t wanted to be there in thefirst place.
Dr. Adler suggested it. Week seven of my exposure therapy program. Thirty minutes in a crowded, uncontrolled environment. Buy one item. Leave. Simple. I chose the Wynwood market because of the honey vendor on the east end. Sealed jars. Airtight lids. Manageable. I had a route planned, a timeline, and an exit strategy. I was nineteen minutes in, on schedule, pulse steady, when she hit me from behind like a caffeinated missile and blew the entire operation to pieces.
And now she was in my office.
