The shower turns off.
I tense.
A door opens somewhere down the hall. Approaching footsteps. Then he walks out.
In nothing but a towel.
It hangs low on his hips. Water is still beading on his shoulders, and his hair is slicked back, darker when wet.
I stop breathing.
I’ve never seen him without a suit. Without the armor of professionalism that he wears like a second skin. The tailored jackets and crisp shirts and perfectly knotted ties that make him look like a respectable lawyer instead of what he really is.
Now—
Jesus.
He has tattoos. They cover his chest, his arms, his ribs. Black ink against tan skin, intricate patterns that I recognize from case files. Mafia symbols. Marks of rank. Some that might represent kills, if the research I’ve done is accurate.
A scar runs along his left side. Another near his collarbone—smaller, older, almost hidden by the ink.
And underneath all of it—muscle. More than the suits ever suggested. Shoulders capable of carrying any weight. Arms that could pin someone to a wall without effort. Chest and abs that look like they were carved rather than built.
Every muscle is evidence that he fights. He’s always fought. His body is a weapon, same as his mind.
I’m staring.
I can’t stop.
My eyes travel down the center of his chest, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the towel. The towel that’s sitting so low on his hips that I can see the V of muscle leading down to?—
“My eyes are up here, princess.”
My gaze snaps to his face.
He’s smiling. That infuriating, knowing smile that says he’s enjoying every second of my discomfort.
“I wasn’t?—”
“You were.” He walks toward the kitchen, completely unbothered by his near-nakedness, by my obvious staring, by any of it. “I don’t mind. Look all you want.”
I don’t know what to do with that.
He opens a cabinet, takes out a pan, and sets it on the stove like it’s routine.
“You know,” he says, back still to me, “I’d love to get more comfortable. Lose the towel. But that might not be appropriate for the workplace.” He glances over his broad shoulder, eyes finding mine. “Speaking of which—you can take off that dress. Get comfortable.”
Heat floods my face. “No, it’s—it’s fine.”
“Suit yourself.” He turns back to the stove. “But if you’re going to sit there all night, you might as well be useful. Come here.”
I don’t move.
“That wasn’t a request, assistant.” His voice carries that edge of command I’m learning to recognize. “Come assist.”
I push myself up and cross into the kitchen.
He’s already at the fridge, pulling things out. Tomatoes. Garlic. Fresh basil. A bottle of wine with a label I don’t recognize but know I’m not meant to touch. He moves the way he does everything—efficiently, deliberately. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
