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“My job.”

“Your job isn’t to rub up against me.”

“Sorry,” he replies, sounding anything but. “I forgot how easily you get…excited.”

I want to slap the smugness off his face. I am not excited by him⁠—

I drop it and march to the reception desk, chin high. “Hi. I’d like a massage.”

The receptionist’s gaze darts past me to Drew, then back. “For…yourself?”

“Yes,” I say tightly. “Just me.”

She hesitates, eyes flicking to him again like she’s waiting for permission.

“He’ll wait out here,” I say.

“I’ll be in the room,” Drew replies smoothly, stepping closer.

“No, you won’t.”

“I will.”

The poor girl shifts behind the desk, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, we don’t allow observers during treatments.”

I turn and glare at him. Drew just shrugs, calm and immovable, like this is all mildly amusing to him.

“Non-negotiable,” he says.

A defeated breath rushes out of me. “Forget it.” I spin on my heel and storm back outside, humiliation burning in my cheeks.

The moment we’re out of earshot, Drew leans in, his voice low and rough near my ear. “I’m on a job. I can’t let you out of my sight.”

“It’s a massage.”

“You never know who’s on the other end of those hands,” he says, far too casual. “If something happens to you while I’m sitting out here, it’s my head. So no one touches you.”

Irritation crawls over my skin. He’s enjoying this.

Fine.

If he’s going to follow me like a guard dog, I’ll make sure he hates every second. I turn sharply and start walking toward the row of designer shops across the street.

Let’s see how much he enjoys trailing me through hours of shopping.

I drag Drew through every boutique on Harlow Drive. Even I’m starting to get bored. This season’s palette is nothing but muddy browns and olives, the cuts unflattering on almost everyone. I make exactly nine purchases anyway. To his credit, Drew carries every bag without a word of complaint.

I guess he’s somewhat useful.

I make a point of walking straight past the Carter flagship store. I’ll never set foot in there again.

I walk into Vue instead. But the moment I do, I regret it. The racks are overstuffed, the fabrics look cheap, and the whole collection screams “trying too hard.” This place used to be one of my favorites. A few years ago I practically emptied their inventory. Now it’s…this.

I pull a dress from the rack and check the tag. “Polyester,” I mutter. As I turn to move down the aisle I nearly collide with Drew. He’s far too close, a solid wall of a man. He takes one measured step back, but his eyes stay on me, amused.

“Keep crowding me,” I warn under my breath, “and I’m going to accidentally introduce my hand to your balls.”

Drew’s gaze darkens, heat flickering in his eyes. A slow, wicked grin curves his mouth as he leans in just a fraction closer.