I stare out the window on the opposite corner. The lake is a flat sheet, mirroring the sky. A heron stands motionless at the end of my dock.
Behind me, the drapes rustle. The distance doesn’t spare me the shift of her skin on the silk lining of my suit, the soft huff of breath, or the low swish of her hair being shaken out from beneath the collar.
“Okay,” she says. “I’m decent. Ish.”
I turn. And wish I could bite down on my fist again.
My jacket is far too big for her. It hangs past her hips like a dress—a very short one that skims the tops of her thighs. Her legs stretch endlessly as if they belong to a much taller woman. The sleeves fall over her hands, the shoulders drooping. She’s so much shorter than me that the button stance sits too low, the lapels gaping open in a deep, plunging V that reveals the pale swell of her generous curves.
Still no visible tattoos.
Her hair is a disaster of dark curls tumbling over one shoulder, wild and untamed, making her look like she just rolled out of bed. Or like she should be rolling back into one.
Preferably mine.
She looks mine, draped in that jacket. It triggers a primitive, lizard-brain possession instinct I wasn’t aware I had.
I do my best not to stare. But I don’t know what my face is doing, because pink blooms across her cheeks.
I shove my hands into my pockets. “Why were you hiding naked in my study?”
“How did you even know I was there?”
“I saw a toe peeking out, thought I was hallucinating.”
Peyton tugs the jacket tighter. “Well, I wasn’t hiding. I was trapped.”
“Behind my curtains.”
“Yes.”
“Without clothes.”
I wait. She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest in a way that pushes everything up and makes my life significantly harder.
“I took a bath,” she says. “Then I came downstairs to grab my leggings from one of the boxes.”
“In your panties?”
“I was going to be quick. In and out. I didn’t bother with clothes because you said you’d be home at eight.” She jabs a finger at me. “You came back four hours early with your father in tow. I heard the door and panicked. I darted into the first room I found.” She gestures at the study. “And then you two walked in, and I got trapped.”
“Riveting.”
She scoffs. “I’m glad you’re entertained.” Aggravated would be more like it. “It’s not like I spent twenty minutes terrified of flashing the patriarch of the Rockwood dynasty.”
“You mostly flashed the lake. I’m sure the fishermen appreciated the show.”
“You’re a jerk.”
“Feel free to file a complaint later.”
“Yeah, to whom? Roger? Who even is Roger?”
“Our family lawyer. At least you heard everything. Saves me the trouble of breaking the news about the postnup.”
Peyton stiffens. Her arms drop to her sides, fists clenching in the too-long sleeves. The playful indignation vanishes, replaced by a rigid pride that straightens her spine.
“Yeah, I heard,” she says. “I’ll sign it.”