I hesitate, mortified that the only thing worse than him standing here would be him standing here while I shut the door in his face. So I step back, brushing a stack of half-filled boxes. He steps inside, his boots heavy on the cracked linoleum that’s pretending to be tile.
He heads straight for my tiny two-person table and sets down the tray and bag, arranging it with the same precision he uses to dismantle my spreadsheets. I shut the door and turn the deadbolt, the click echoing too loud in the cramped apartment.
In the too-small space, he drags his eyes over me, slow and possessive. I have no doubt he’s judging the threadbare T-shirt, the ratty old baseball cap with my unruly ponytail poking out the opening in the back, and the shorts that barely cover anything. My thighs are basically out there for the world to see—or at least for Xavier Blackwell to look at, which is worse. And if I bend over…
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Those shorts,” he says, voice dropping low, “need to be burned.”
I fold my arms over my chest, ignoring the squeak of the bubble wrap pressing into my ribs. “It’s ninety-eight degrees out, and if you haven’t noticed, the window units are all but on strike. You want me in a power suit while I sort my sock drawer?”
His gaze, hot enough to sear right through the fraying hem of my dignity, lifts from my bare skin. “You’re tempting me, Ms. Hollis. Take that as fair warning.”
My pulse flutters. Every sensual moment between us comes crashing back. The spanking. The kiss. The dinner at Bluewater Bistro. The heat of him every time he leans over my desk to study a financial projection.
Does he know how much I want him, even though I shouldn’t?
“I’m melting in the heat.” Why am I continuing to poke the bear?
His eyes flash, dark and hungry, like he wants to devour that piece of defiance right off my tongue. He shifts closer, boots scraping across the cracked linoleum, the scent of coffee and temptation curling between us.
Houston’s swampy heat presses in, sweat beading on my neck. I see the internal war raging in his eyes. Take. Don’t take.
I can’t breathe. Not if I want to keep any scrap of my self-control intact.
“Go change, Ms. Hollis. While I still let you.”
I really shouldn’t stand here half naked in front of this man. Not when Lila could walk in at any second and see the truth stamped across my face. That I want him to touch me. And if he does, I won’t stop him.
“Last chance.”
Pivoting, I drop the bubble wrap on the floor as I dodge a stack of boxes, then bolt for the bedroom and slam the door behind me. I strip off the too-short shorts and yank a slightly more respectable pair from a laundry basket. My hands shake as I pull them on. I swear I still feel the burn of his gaze on my thighs.
My billionaire boss is dangerous in suits. But like this? Casual, unpolished, no armor? He’s devastating.
When I come back out, my new, slightly longer shorts clinging to my thighs, he’s already found a plate in my pathetic excuse for a kitchen. He’s arranged the kolaches like they’re some five-star pastry on a catering tray, napkins perfectly fanned out, and he’s holding out my coffee like it’s a peace offering.
“It’s a mocha. Extra whipping cream.”
“You remembered.”
“Every detail, Ms. Hollis.”
I reach for it, ignoring the way my fingers want to linger against his. The to-go cup is filled with an expensive brand, not the stale drip I’d planned to drink while frantically shoving the rest of my belongings into boxes and bags.
His eyes flick down to my new shorts, skimming my legs in a slow, unhurried sweep. “You think those are less tempting?” His murmur is pitched low, private.
Heat prickles up my throat. “They cover more than the other ones did.” I’m defensive, and I wish I sounded stronger.
“Keep telling yourself that.”
It’s reckless, how I want him. He could have any woman on the planet—hell, the tabloids love him for it. The scandalous headlines that nearly celebrated my downfall are still etched in my mind.
So why he’s here, in my dump of an apartment, hauling pastries like some sinfully hot handyman, I have no idea.
I open my mouth to thank him and send him on his way, but I’m stopped by the incessant ringing of the bell. That can only be Lila. And God, I hope she behaves. I never know what she’s going to say, and he’s among her least favorite people on the planet.
Excusing myself, I dart past him, swing the door open—and there she is, all Montrose energy in big boho earrings, neon nails gripping an iced coffee the size of Texas.
She stops dead when she spots him, her eyes narrowing so hard I swear even the humidity recoils.