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“Mr. Harris!” she exclaims, crosses her arms over her chest, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m sorry, sir, I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning. I thought it might be Dan…”
I feel a growl forming in my throat. That stupid boy, chasing after Amelia when she’s clearly way too good for him...does he come by often? The thought makes me see red. My blood boiling. Every possessive bone inside me wants to hunt him down and—
“Sir?”
Amelia snaps me back to the present. I clear my throat, trying to remain calm. I don’t want to make a fool of myself.
“Sorry. I’m a little out of it this morning. I just wondered if I could talk with you for a few moments?”
Amelia looks down at her paint stained pajamas and I can tell she’s as mortified as I am. We’re both clearly a little out of sorts around one another. She’s distracting me with how sexy she looks and she’s nervous as hell in my presence.
“Of course you can. Do come in. I’m sorry for the paint smell. It’s quite strong, but I’ve opened the windows…”
I step inside her room and feel her presence radiating from the place. The room screams of her delicate beauty, with her paintings decorating the walls and every inch of the room immaculate. In the middle of the room stands her latest canvas atop an easel with a stunning painting of a sunset displayed.
“You’re very talented.” I marvel, stepping closer to take a better look. Every fine brush stroke is a beautiful detail. Somehow, her talent only makes me want her more and more with each passing second. Especially when I turn to see that my compliment has made her cheeks turn scarlet.
“That’s very kind of you to say, sir. It’s just for fun.”
“These should be displayed in galleries, not in your bedroom.”
Her cheeks darken further. “You flatter me…but like I said, I’m not at that stage yet. I’m just a cleaner, after all.”
“Don’t say that about yourself,” I snarl. “You’re not just anything. You don’t have any clue how special you are, do you?”
Amelia looks shell shocked at the comment. She fiddles with her hair, seemingly unable to answer. This is all too much for her. I’m coming on too strong.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep,” I say. “I just wanted you to know how good you are.”
“I don’t receive a lot of praise,” she admits quietly. “I guess I’m just not used to compliments.”
The comment makes me sad. She should have people showering her with praise all day long. She deserves it all and more. I walk around the room, examining each picture on the wall. Amelia stands off to the side, her hands clasped together demurely. God, she’s so sweet without even realizing it.
“I just wanted to say...I’m so sorry to hear about your father passing away. I know the two of you were very close.”
There’s a pang in my chest. I didn’t realize it was so obvious to outsiders. My father and I spent a lot of time together in a business setting, but there was an unspoken bond between us that sweetened the deal. Her comment reminds me how much I miss him.
“Thank you. You’re kind to say so.”
“He was a good man. He was always kind to me when we crossed paths. And...and he raised a good son.”
I turn to look at Amelia, overcome by my desire for her. She’s the most gentle soul I’ve ever met, and her sympathy only endears her to me more, because it’s like she truly understands me. She sees me in a way no one else seems to. I’m not just a good looking man sitting on top of a pile of money when I’m with her.
I’m something more.
“I’m glad you think so...Your opinion matters to me,” I tell her, meaning every single word. She blinks several times.
“It does?”
“Of course,” I say firmly. “I like hearing what you think.”
She’s blushing again now. It makes me smirk a little. I should really stop making her blush. I clear my throat. I’m getting way off track now.
“I wanted to come here and talk to you about something. I don’t have a lot of friends, and I was hoping to find someone to confide in and I thought of your right away. You seem like a voice of reason.”
Amelia looks a little baffled. After all, we’ve barely shared three words between us over the last few months. But the sexual tension in here is so thick that I know she’s at least partially on the same page as me. And if talking to her about my inheritance clause issue gives me more time with her, then I’m going to do it.
“Well, of course. You can ask me anything, sir.”
“Leo. Call me Leo,” I insist gruffly. I don’t want to hear her calling me Mr. Harris any more, or sir. Not when I’m trying to get closer to her. Not when I’m trying to make her mine.
