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I fly out of my house and across the front walk to my cherry-red ’69 Camaro, refusing to look at the clock on the dashboard since I have a feeling it’s not going to tell me anything nice.
As I pull out of the driveway, I decide not to take it as a bad omen when Eva, my receptionist, calls in to say she needs to leave the office on yet another emergency, something to do with her preteen daughter caught smoking in the schoolyard. We agree she should leave the waiting room open for my eight-thirty client since I’m only a few minutes away.
I crank up Led Zeppelin—because there are only a few things in life old rock music can’t solve—and keep it moving, knowing the unsettled feeling in the pit of my belly would leave once I got through the first three sessions of the day. Sometimes Monday just loves to kick you up the butt.
But despite Zeppelin, my resolve wavers when a traffic jam on the freeway slows me down by an extra twenty minutes. And it just about hits rock bottom as I pull into the building’s crowded parking lot and find a way-too-pretty, black Lamborghini parked in my spot. Jerk.
Would it be wrong to key it?
Yeah, probably.
So, I spend another five minutes finding another spot, tuck my keys away in my purse and hurry inside, taking the stairs rather than the temperamental elevator up to the third floor.
Visions of Miguel Ramirez—my first client of the day—already pacing a trench in the hallway outside my office dance in my head.
I reach the third floor to find that Miguel isn’t in the hallway, but the door to the waiting room is open. Unusual. Miguel is usually too wound up to sit down in the waiting room, especially on a Monday morning after he’s been on edge all weekend.
I push the door open and step into the empty waiting room, greeted by the usual relaxing classical music softly playing from the wall speakers. However, the real kicker is that my office door is inexplicably wide open. A knot of irritation tightens in my belly.
Why on earth would Eva leave my office door open, potentially letting Miguel—or anyone else—wander in?
I pad across the waiting room, my heels silent on the thick carpet, stopping short at the doorway.
There’s a man in my office—a tall, broad-shouldered figure who seems to be jacked to high heaven beneath his expensive-looking dark gray suit. He stands by the far wall, feet planted firmly apart, presenting his impressive back to me while his attention is fixed on the bulletin board that is lined with flyers for online therapy workshops and mindfulness sessions.
Who the hell dropped this Adonis in here?
Were he not dressed in a suit, I’d be inclined to think he’d taken a wrong turn on his way to the gym on the second floor.
The man suddenly goes still, as if sensing my presence at the doorway, then turns around. As if the back view wasn’t enough to get a girl’s heart racing, I’m struck with deep-set blue eyes like twin lasers, sensual lips, a square stubbled jaw, and thick dark hair that’s perfectly tousled.
Well, if the gods have decided to make up for the shitty morning with this sight, I’m pretty okay with that.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
He takes a couple of steps toward me then stops. “You’re Sophie Kellan,” his voice rumbles deeply as his eyes graze over me from head to toe. It’s not a question, and the way he looks at me tells me he already knows who I am.
Still, I answer, “That’s me. And you are…?”
“Nico Vitelli. I wonder if I could have a minute of your time, Ms. Kellan?” he asks, embodying cool sophistication and impeccable manners, but I see through that veneer.
There’s a dangerous aura about him. He’s unnaturally calm for someone who’s never been here before; it's as if he's acting from a script, having planned each move with precision. The stealth in his movement just now, and the way his gaze sears into me as if he expects me to bolt any second—signals that I might be prey in his eyes.
It feels like I’ve inadvertently wandered into his lair.
My heart lurches, then picks up its pace.
Please, please, let him be a client, I silently plead, refusing to entertain any other possibilities for why a hot, dangerous stranger with otherworldly eyes would come crashing into my office as if he owns the place.
I force steadiness into my voice, “I’m afraid you’ll have to call to make an appointment, Mr. Vitelli.”
He smiles then—a flash of perfect teeth and deep grooves in his cheeks. It’s a smile that, I’m pretty sure, is designed to weaken knees, which would explain the ripple of awareness now coursing down my spine.
He steps around me and heads toward the office door behind me, forcing me to move fully into the room and reversing our positions. His smooth movements conjure images of panthers and tigers and all kinds of other things with sharp teeth.
Once he reaches the door, he gently pushes it shut and leans against it. The pounding in my chest becomes a deafening roar when I see him reach behind him to lock the door.
“Like I said, I just need a minute of your time.”
