He reached for the button to the lobby when Enzo sauntered into the living room looking like pure, unadulterated sin in a pair of fitted black track pants, which were slung low on his hips, and a black tank top that showed off every single inch of colorful inkthat spanned his perfect body, starting from under his beard and ending at his fingertips.
He had a towel in one hand and his phone in the other. He gave no indication that he’d noted Seven’s arrival as he spoke abruptly to whoever was on the other line.
“No, we’re not waiving privilege, not even partially. If they want those internal memos, they can issue a subpoena and we’ll fight it.”
Seven’s ears burned. Should he be listening to this? Technically, this was all privileged information. He should definitely go. But he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, mouth dry as he watched Enzo’s well-muscled arm lift to run the towel over his damp chestnut hair before settling the fabric around his shoulders.
“I don’t care what outside counsel is saying,we’recontrolling the narrative, Drucilla. Client doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t so much as blink without clearance from our office. You know this.”
Enzo glanced out the glass window then froze. He’d finally noticed Seven standing stock still in the reflection. He turned, a knowing smirk breaking across his face, taking him from dark and dangerous to hot and rich in the blink of an eye.
He took in Seven’s statue-like pose before he crooked his finger, beckoning him inside, making no attempt to hide the way his eyes roved Seven’s body from head-to-toe.
Seven stumbled forward without thought. Once he left the elevator, Enzo crossed the room, not stopping until he was so close Seven had to crane his neck back to look up at him. He managed eye contact for approximately half a second before dropping his gaze to his shoes.
Enzo laughed low, then chucked him beneath his chin, tilting his head up once again. Heat simmered low in his belly as Enzo took him in, making no attempt to hide his interest.
Seven hoped Enzo didn’t try to talk to him. There was no way he’d hear past his own blood rushing in his ears. No man should be this beautiful. His eyes were the same chestnut brown as his hair, and his lashes were long enough to cast shadows on his sharp cheeks. He had full lips, a trimmed beard, and crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Seven wanted to look away, but Enzo pinned him in place with his piercing stare.
So, he stood there, head empty, while Enzo studied him. Seven’s breath stuttered, pulse tripping as Enzo dipped his head. What the fuck? Was he going to…kiss him? Now?
His breath hitched as cool lips pressed against his forehead, lingering long enough to have him reeling. Awareness zipped through his whole body as Enzo casually slipped Seven’s bag off his arm and placed it on a barstool, mouthing,Five minutes.
Seven nodded woodenly, his skin still tingling where Enzo’s lips had touched him. The other man made a gesture like he could look around if he liked, then turned away from him to walk to a glass wall covered with a sleek black metal grid. The messy desk behind it told Seven it was a makeshift office of some sort.
Seven’s fingertips skimmed his forehead. Had that really just happened? Fucking was one thing, but what kind of maniac kissed a stranger’s forehead like he was something important? This was just a one-night stand.
Seven stayed rooted to the spot, his head on a swivel. On his left, there was a glossy wooden staircase with a glass railing that presumably led to the bedrooms. In the center, industrial light fixtures dangled from the sky-high cement ceilings over the large orange sofa and a coffee table so ugly it had to have cost a small fortune. The whole penthouse seemed to be decorated with fuck-you money, like Enzo was trying to prove something to someone.
But who?
The kitchen stood off to Seven’s right. It was bigger than his entire apartment. The countertops were made of slick whitemarble with gold and black veins running through them. The island alone was four-feet across and long enough to hold six barstools comfortably. There were two ovens, stacked on top of each other, and two refrigerators built right into the wall, sitting side-by-side.
One had a glass door, revealing it held only drinks—everything from soda to the fancy imported beer Jericho now drank—right there out in the open for all the world to see. The other refrigerator was double the size but hid its secrets behind a large stainless steel door.
From a distance, he heard Enzo snort out a laugh, his voice echoing all the way back to Seven in the kitchen. “Right. Well, tell him if he wants to stay out of an orange jumpsuit, he’ll keep his mouth shut and let me handle it. Everything else can wait until tomorrow. Yeah, I might be late to the office…yeah, yeah. See ya.”
Enzo came back around the corner, smiling when he realized Seven hadn’t moved. “What’s wrong, brat baby?”
“How rich are you?” Seven heard himself say before clamping his lips shut.
Enzo laughed. “Rich enough to buy the entire top two floors of this building and do all this,” he said. He narrowed his eyes at him. “Do you want a drink? You look like you’re two seconds away from trying to fling yourself over the balcony to escape. You know I’m not holding you hostage, right?”
Seven fixed him with a flat stare. “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting you to live in an apartment the size of a subway station,” he snarked.
“There’s my bratty boy,” Enzo taunted with a grin. “Have you eaten?”
Seven startled at the question. Was this what one-night stands were like for older people? He dropped his gaze to his ratty Chuck Taylor’s. “I had something a while ago.”
Enzo once more forced his gaze upwards with a finger beneath his chin. “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he said softly. “When was a while ago?”
Seven shrugged. “Like…three-thirty?”
“It’s ten o’clock at night. You didn’t eat dinner?” He tsked, then shook his head, going to his giant refrigerator—the one with all its secrets—and opened the door, looking around for a minute before he returned with a protein shake.
“Why isn’t that in the drink fridge?” Seven mumbled. “Isn’t it technically a drink?”
“It’s a meal replacement shake.”
