“Take this.”
His voice is deeper than before. Intimate, almost. Or maybe I onlythinkit is because my pheromones have just woken up at the sight of the first hunk of male flesh I’ve seen since Gerard.
I swallow, my gaze caught on the crisp white shirt he’s holding out to me.
My lashes feel heavy when I lift them, setting eyes on his face.
Christ.Whydoes he have to be hot?
I school my features into something bland as I take him in.
Deep set, dark eyes and thick brows. Chiseled Roman nose. George Clooney stubble. Full lips with no hint of a smirk.
I put him at late forties or early fifties. Clearly looks after himself.
I swallow again and hope my voice still works. “You want me to have your shirt?”
“You said you need to be somewhere in a hurry,” he replies. “Take this for now.”
A stubborn, defiant part of me wants to throw the shirt back at him. It didn’t feel like an offer—it felt like a command, and I don’t like the way my knees have gone soft.
The coffee covering my blouse has cooled beneath the conditioned air, reminding me I can’t stand here for much longer before my nipples let the world know they’re chilly.
I hastily debate the merit in accepting his shirt. I don’t have the time nor money to buy a fresh one, and I can’t show up to a mediation either covered in coffee stains or half-naked. Accepting this stranger’s shirt would solve a problem quickly.
He jerks his head toward a restroom door and I scowl but take the shirt anyway.
The first thing I do when I’ve locked the door is stare at my reflection. The coffee covered me good and my entire 32DD bra is visible beneath the muddy polyester. Guess I just gave a coffee-shop-full of people an unexpected peep show.
I don’t bother undoing the buttons before I pull the soggy mess over my head. It was only ten bucks, but ten bucks means a lot to me these days. Still, not enough to justify a trip to the dry cleaner when there’s a million and one other things I have to do.
No.I’mnot taking it to the dry cleaner.Heis.
His shirt is slightly warm from where it had fit snugly around his upper body. My mind goes blank as I push my arms through the sleeves. It feels soexpensive.
I pause and check the label. Dolce & Gabbana. Um, ‘kay.
And thescent. Holy nostrils. My senses swim in bergamot, burnished leather and honey. It’s maddeningly heady.
Carefully, I fasten the buttons, leaving the top few open.
When I glance up at my reflection, I groan. The shirt—as luxurious as it is—drowns me.
I tuck the length as best I can into my skirt and roll up the sleeves, tilting my head in approval. The extra material certainly pads out my hips but I’m going to be on a screenfor the mediation—no one will see below my waist. I take the opportunity to tidy up the mess I’d made with the makeup then unlock the door.
The man has fastened his jacket, concealing most of his bare chest, and I bite down on a pout, reminding myself I’m about to be late for my lawyer meeting and it’s All. His. Fault.
He’s standing with one hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other wrapped around a large coffee.
“I thought you could use this.” He pushes the take-out cup toward me and I narrow my eyes.
“French vanilla latte. Oat milk—just in case.”
I force annoyance back into my frown even though I’m quietly marveling at how thoughtful this is, and how incrediblymarbledhis still-visible pecs are.
I tentatively take the cup from him, trying to ignore the fact I apparently now have a thing for large hands, thick fingers, and heavily inked knuckles.
My phone buzzes again.