Okay, fine.Me.
Certainly me, if the way he’s been haunting my dreams all week is any indication.
Get naked for me, cookie.
Spread those legs for me, gorgeous.
Take it all, beautiful.
Heat flutters through my middle, dips down between my thighs, and I bite back a groan as I ride the elevator up from the parking garage. The only good thing about sharing the floor with Jace is that the CEO of Genen-core seems to travel a lot for work.
I haven’t caught a glimpse of that sexy body, that annoying smirk, those gorgeous eyes…
Not since he murmured, “Night, cookie,” and meandered down the hall.
Something else I’ve heard in my dreams.
I shiver as the elevator doors open with a ding and step out into the hall, and I’m so lost in that tempting package of rough and dangerous, silky soft and full of mischief that I don’t really process what I’m seeing.
Not until the toes of my expensive—and uncomfortable—spike heels (a choice of footwear I’ve deemed necessary to hold my own with all the men I deal with on a daily basis) land in a puddle.
Splash!
It’s the splash that does it.
Because the hallway floor is carpet.
And that’s not supposed to make a splashing sound.
Slowly, and with dawning horror, I glance down.
Water.
A fuck-ton of water, at least an inch, is sitting on top of the carpet, pouring out the thin opening beneath the door, creating that puddle I splashed into.
“Oh, my God,” I say, finally processing the shitshow that is happening beneath my feet.
I jab the buttons on the keypad, hearing thewhiras the lock disengages, and then I’m yanking at the handle, shoving my way inside.
“Oh, my God!” I say again.
It’s worse than I thought.
My apartment, the one I’ve worked hard to move into over the last few weeks—complete with careful placement of furniture and throw rugs and a shoe rack that’s floating off my brand-new hardwood floor—is flooded.
Completely flooded.
I blink as my shoe rack drifts toward the front door, but I don’t watch it drift out into the hallway.
Because I’m in crisis mode, trying to figure out where the leak is coming from.
The kitchen seems the most obvious culprit.
But the sink’s not on and there isn’t water flowing out from beneath it.
The dishwasher isn’t overflowing. Hell, it isn’t even hooked up—something I discovered two days ago when I tried to run a load of dishes and ended up having to wash and dry them by hand. The fridge doesn’t have an ice maker, so no leak there.
I hurry down the hall to the bathroom.
