“That’s our cue,” he tells Sammy, dragging him toward the exit.
But not before he turns back and says something over his shoulder, voice low enough that I can’t quite make it out—then the hair on the back of my neck rises.
I’m no longer alone.
He didn’t leave after all.
Atlas is somewhere behind me.
Watching.
Waiting.
Pulling at me with that quiet gravity he pretends he doesn’t wield.
And God help me—I feel it.
Atlas James Stavros.
The so-called prince of nowhere, all polished arrogance and quiet danger.
I keep my eyes on my paperwork, pretending I don’t feel his gaze like a touch.
Pretending I’m not aware of every move he makes—the way he stands too still, too controlled, the way his presence feels like gravity, pulling everything toward him.
God help me, I’ve got absolutely zero room for that man in my life.
And yet he’s been living rent free in my head for weeks.
Ever since the first time I saw him.
You can’t blame me. The man is fine.
Movie star good looks, but too dangerous to be harmless. That dark, glossy hair that always looks finger-tousled instead of styled, olive skin that looks like it was kissed by Mediterranean sun, light brown eyes that go molten when they catch the light.
And his mouth?
Fuck.
Don’t even get me started on that mouth. I’m talking full, plump lips over straight, bright white teeth. It’s only enhanced by his permanent five o’clock shadow.
He’s tall too, the kind of tall that makes you wonder what it would feel like to stand chest to chest with him, to tilt your chin up just to meet his eyes.
His suits look custom, and you can tell he knows how to fill them out.
Broad shoulders.
Thick, long legs.
That confident, quiet power some men are born with, and most men try to fake.
My panties are instantly wet every time I look at him, and it’s—well, it’s infuriating.
Focus, Cece.
The docks are quieter now, the smell of salt and diesel thick in the air, clinging to my skin like cheap cologne.
The cargo’s been catalogued. The contracts signed.
