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Her eyes narrow. “You’re making that up.”
“I believe you said something about my cologne.” I tap my finger to my chin. “What was it you called it again...?”
“I was delirious, Will. High fever, remember?”
“Then you mumbled something about bad or being bad. Wait, maybe you were saying I wasn’t so bad.”
“I vomited the two times I met you, or have you forgotten?” she counters, and I keep my grin hidden.
“We may have gotten off to a bad start, Khloe. With you showing up late and all.” It’s true, we did. But honest to God, she’s like a breath of fresh air.
“I told you, I pride myself on my punctuality, but James offered me the job at the last minute, and traffic, and...and...ugh, forget it. I’m wasting my time.”
Under the guise of strengthening my next point, I let my glance race the length
of her. In reality, I’m simply enjoying the view of her in my button-down. “And of course, you were dressed improperly, but for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re so bad, either.”
She pulls a big round brush from the drawer, and I step outside and close the door before she can throw it at me. It hits the door with a thud, and I laugh out loud. I shouldn’t enjoy pushing her buttons so much. But goddammit I love the way she gets all fired up.
I head to the kitchen and busy myself with making the coffee, anything to keep my mind off her curvy naked body in the shower. The woman is a distraction I don’t need. I’m here to work on my algorithms and check on the hotel and school. What I should not be contemplating is all the ways Khloe and I could get down and dirty.
Once the coffee is brewing, I boot up my laptop and answer a few emails. The shower turns off, and I power down my computer and grab eggs and bacon from the fridge. I’m not sure how she likes her eggs, so I decide scrambled is safest. I drop bread into the toaster and fish the jam from the fridge. Soon enough everything is ready, but Khloe is nowhere to be found.
I retrace my steps to her room. Her door is slightly ajar, the way I left it, and I catch a flash of black inside.
I knock softly. “Everything okay in there?”
“As good as it can be,” she says, her words tight.
“You’re not feeling sick again, are you?”
The door swings open, and I nearly swallow my tongue at the unbelievable sight before me.
Sweet mother of all that is holy.
“Is there a problem?” she asks, one hand on her hip, her expression far from amused.
“Um...no,” I lie. Because yeah, there is a problem, and it’s between my legs, growing thicker by the second.
She pushes past me. “I hope you made coffee. I’m going to need a gallon.”
“I made coffee,” I mumble as my eyes latch onto her backside, which sways sexily, spilling out of the too-tight French maid uniform. Her heels tap the floor as I steal a glance at the lacy stockings hugging her thighs. This...this is what she thought Granddad meant when he told her I had a dress code? I think the tables have turned, and now she’s the one who’s going to be pushing my buttons, every last one of them.
She disappears from my sight, mumbling angrily about men in power and how they’re all the same, and I gulp. Cupboards open and slam closed, pulling me from my trance, and I force one foot in front of the other, rounding the corner to find her filling a mug with coffee. She plasters on a smile, but there is anger in her eyes as they bore into me.
“Coffee?” she asks, her smile saccharine sweet.
“Uh, yeah. I can get it.”
“I believe that’s my job.” She grabs a mug, slams it onto the counter and fills it to the brim.
“Thanks,” I say. She tugs on the hem of her small skirt, but it doesn’t budge. She grumbles something and turns to me when a sound I can’t control rumbles in my throat.
“Is there a problem, Will?”
If I were a gentleman, I’d tell her she didn’t have to dress like a French maid straight out of my fantasies. Yeah, if I were a gentleman, I’d tell her that a costume is not required in my home, and that if she insists on wearing it, I might break my hard rule and tear it from her lush body. For a brief second, I lose myself in that erotic fantasy. My hands on her soft flesh, slowly sliding those stockings down, then licking a path back up her legs. Of course, in my fantasy, she’s quivering and moaning my name—not cursing it under her breath and glaring at me like she’d like to fillet me with the biggest damn knife in the drawer. Yeah, if I were a goddamn gentleman, I’d yell abort, but unfortunately, it’s not my brain calling the shots.
“Well, is there?” she asks.
