I cross to his desk and set the contracts in the center, aligning them with the edge because he likes things straight. Not that he told me. I just noticed. Jordan Richmond is the type of man who notices everything, and after a month of working for him, I have started noticing him back.
The thought makes my cheeks warm.
I turn to leave.
Then I see the photograph on the low cabinet near the window.
I have seen it before, but only from a distance. Jordan at some charity dinner, dressed in a black suit, standing beside three women holding framed certificates. Everyone else is smiling.
Jordan looks like someone threatened him with joy.
I step closer.
His expression is so severe I almost laugh.
Almost.
I pick up the frame and tilt it toward the light.
“Do you practice looking terrifying,” I murmur, “or does it just happen naturally?”
“Naturally.”
I scream.
Not a delicate scream.
Not a cute little gasp.
A whole embarrassing bird-noise explosion.
The frame nearly slips from my hands.
Jordan Richmond stands in the open doorway of his private bathroom, the one with the shower he apparently uses after early workouts or coffee-related wardrobe disasters, wearing nothing but a towel.
Chapter 2
Natalie
Atowel.
One white towel slung low around his hips.
Water drips from his dark hair, sliding down his throat, his chest, the hard ridges of his stomach. His tattoos are brighter against wet skin, curling over his shoulder and down his arm. There are scars too, pale lines and rough marks that make him look less like a fantasy and more like a man who has survived real things.
Which, unfairly, makes him even more of a fantasy.
I forget to breathe.
He looks at me.
I look at him.
Then, because my eyes are apparently independent contractors with no supervision, I look lower.
The towel is hanging on through optimism and one tucked corner.
My entire body catches fire.
