There’s a sharp inhale on the other end of the line. I just poked the dragon.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he says after a beat, voice rougher now. “I know that. But don’t make the mistake of thinking I regret it, Mya.”
My stomach flips violently, my mind torn between indignation and the hot, treacherous pulse low in my belly.
“Enjoy the massage, Ms. Jones. I’ll see you at dinner,” he adds abruptly, as if cutting himself off before he can say more.
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone, staring at the screen.
The massage appointment is still a half hour away, my muscles wound even tighter than before.
What the hell is Worth doing to me?
21
MYA
The massage leaves me relaxed, loose-limbed—and annoyed.
Annoyed because I actually enjoyed it, and I don’t want to be grateful to Worth Miller. I should be furious at him for constantly crossing lines.
As I get ready for dinner, I decide to channel that irritation into my outfit: something provocative but still classy. A black dress with a low back, a slit that teases mid-thigh, paired with strappy heels that make my legs look longer than they are. If Worth is going to mess with my head, I may as well return the favor.
I exchange a quick text with Seraya confirming the meet-up time, swipe on a final coat of lipstick, and head downstairs. The others are in the lobby. Worth waits near the others, in a dark suit tailored to perfection.
He doesn’t say a word, but the way his eyes drag down my body and then back up makes my stomach flip. His face smooths out into that unreadable mask he always wears, but I feel the tension, thick as a barbed wire.
We don’t speak. Just exchange a curt nod.
Then Ethan lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Jones.”
Heat crawls up my neck; before I can respond, Seraya chimes in, grinning as she gives me a once-over. “You’ll be turning all the guys’ heads tonight.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the tiniest twitch at Worth’s temple, and I stifle a smug smile.
When we arrive at the restaurant—an upscale spot tucked against the bay, glowing with candlelight—we’re promptly seated at a long table near the glass walls showcasing the skyline.
Worth takes the chair beside me without hesitation. Out of all the empty options, he chose the one next to me.
The waiter hands out menus, but all I register is him so close. Heat radiates off his body, and when he leans in, his addictive cologne invades me at once.
His lips brush dangerously near my ear as he whispers, “You look pliable tonight, Ms. Jones. I gather the massage went well.”
My throat goes dry, and I curl my fingers around the stem of my wineglass to hide the way they tremble.
Pliable.Who even says stuff like that—and at a work dinner? My boss, apparently. My infuriatingly magnetic boss who knows damn well what his words do to me.
I force a scoff, tilting the glass toward my lips so I don’t have to meet his eyes. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Miller?”
The corner of his mouth tugs upward. “What if I said yes?” he murmurs, before leaning back in his chair as if he didn’t just set my entire bloodstream on fire.
My pulse hammers against my ribs. I will the heat in my cheeks to fade as I focus hard on the menu, on the conversations swirling around me, on literally anything but the man beside me.
Because if I don’t, I’ll forget where I am. And that this is supposed to beprofessional.
“I told you to stop, Worth,” I say, though it comes out thin, weak.