“That’s a shame,” he murmurs, finally pulling a book from the shelf. I can see the cover from where I’m standing, but it’s written in Albanian text so I can’t decipher what it’s about.
Then he moves to one of the leather chairs and sits.
No.
My lips part in shock. “I–I still have cleaning to do in here.”
He barely spares me a glance as he flips the book open. “I’ll try to stay out of your way.”
Try to stay out of my way?You’re sitting in my way.
I watch him helplessly, wondering how he’d react if I just asked him to leave.
Badly, probably.
MaybeI’mthe one who should leave. There isn’t much cleaning left here anyway. I could make an excuse?—
Except all my supplies are sitting on the table right next to his chair, and I need them to clean the next room on my list.
Fuck my life.
I straighten my spine and tell myself to get a grip. He’s not going to accost me in broad daylight in his father’s study. Hell, he doesn’t even seem interested in me at all—he’s absorbed in his book, paying me no attention whatsoever.
Besides, I looked up those Albanian words he threw at me last night, and I’m pretty sure he was calling me some kind of dirty liar. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘man secretly attracted to you’.
So quit acting like a nervous teenager and just do your damn job.
I wipe my palms down my apron and walk towards him with as much confidence as I can fake. “You’re not in my way. I’ve actually finished here and just wanted to do some final touch-ups.”
He doesn’t even look up as I pass, just hums in acknowledgement, eyes glued to the Albanian text. A fraction of the tension leaves my chest as I scoop up my things.
See? Piece of cake. Nothing to freak out about.
I turn and start to leave, but as I walk past him, his hand shoots out and wraps around my wrist.
Heat explodes across my skin. My fingers go numb, useless, and everything I’m holding—bleach, towel, cleaning brush—clatter to the floor in a humiliating heap as my heart lodges in my throat.
Oh God, what?—
I freeze, every muscle rigid, before slowly forcing my gaze downward. His eyes are impossibly green up close, so intense they knock the air from my lungs. For a beat, I can only stare, utterly mesmerized.
“What’s your middle name?”
“What?” The word escapes me in a breathy whisper.
“No matter how much I think about it, the name Mia doesn’t quite suit you. It sounds ridiculous. So, what’s your middle name?” His thumb strokes once across the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, and I shiver involuntarily. “You have one, don’t you?” he adds sardonically.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as warning bells shriek in my head. I blink at him speechlessly, my brain scrambling to construct a plausible response.
Say something. Anything. Give him a name, any name. Or tell him to fuck off. Just do something besides standing here like a statue.
He smiles softly and releases my wrist. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me,” he murmurs, but satisfaction gleams unmistakably in those too-perceptive eyes like he’s just won a game I didn’t know we were playing.
He was testing me. Probably wanted to see how I’d react, and my stunned silence told him what he needed to know. Or thought he knew. I’m not sure which is worse.
What was he testing?
Then I realize I’m free—his hand has dropped away, returning to his book like nothing happened—and I flee like my ass is on fire, leaving my cleaning supplies scattered on the floor behind me.
