J.R.
My chest does something stupid.
I should be relieved. After yesterday, a day without Jordan Richmond sitting behind the office door six feet from my deskshould feel like mercy. A responsible woman would be grateful for space.
I am disappointed.
Deeply, embarrassingly disappointed.
I go to work anyway, because adulthood is rude like that. His office stays empty all day, which somehow makes him more present. I answer emails, update meeting notes, and check his closed door more times than a sane woman should check an empty room.
By six that evening, I am home again, standing in front of my mirror in the dress he sent.
It fits.
That is the problem.
It fits like someone knew exactly where I was soft and decided to make me stop apologizing for it. The neckline is elegant, the waist gentle, the skirt skimming my hips in a way that makes me feel less like I am taking up too much space and more like maybe the space was meant for me.
The doorbell rings at six thirty.
I open it.
Jordan stands in my hallway in a dark suit, one hand in his pocket, green-silver eyes moving over me with such slow heat that I forget every single greeting ever invented.
His gaze travels from my hair to the dress to the shoes and back to my face.
“Good.”
One word.
My knees, traitors that they are, accept it as poetry.
“Hello to you too,” I say.
His mouth softens for half a second. “Turn around.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Your clasp.”
Oh.
The dress has a tiny clasp at the back of my neck that I wrestled with for four minutes before deciding my hair would hide my failure. I turn, and Jordan steps into my apartment far enough to close the door behind him.
The quiet changes immediately.
His fingers brush my hair aside. Warm knuckles skim the back of my neck, and I go still.
“Breathe,” he says.
“I did that all day without supervision.”
“You’re not doing it very well now.”
“That is your fault.”
“Yes.”
