“Maybe he wants you.”
The words hit like a punch, and I snap my gaze to hers, eyes narrowing. “What?”
She shrugs, unbothered. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
“No.” I zip the bag shut—hard. “You’re imagining things.” He doesn’t look at me in any particular way. Shit, do I look at him some type of way? My heart squeezes at the thought, heat flooding my face. God, I hope not.
“Maybe,” she allows, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, I have to get to work. Good luck, though. Maybe you can invite me over sometime?” Her smile turns wistful.
I make a noncommittal sound. Even if I wanted to invite her, I seriously doubt Roan would allow visitors. His space. His rules.
She finally leaves and I try to dismiss her words, but they linger, prickling under my skin, crawling into my thoughts.
Does he want me?Howdoes he look at me?
I’m suddenly dying to know what’s different about his expression when he looks at me.
But none of that should matter.No, it doesn’t matter.He doesn’t want me and I can’t want him. He may not know it yet, but we’re on enemy lines, and that line can’t be crossed. I’m here to spy on his family and betray them.
That’s the reality. That’s what matters.
But my little pep talk doesn’t stop the knot of dread—and something else—from tightening in my chest as I make the short walk to his house.
The structure makes me stop and stare despite my anxiety. It’s stunning—a sleek one-story design with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, clean white walls, and a polished stone path leading to an impressive front door.
No wonder Esma wanted an invitation.
I hesitate on the doorstep, swallowing hard before knocking. No answer. I wait and knock again. Still nothing.
Is he even here?
After another pause, I test the handle. It turns easily, and the door glides open without a sound. I step inside, careful not to make one either.
The air is cool and still, filled with the faint hum of air conditioning and the scent of clean linen, dark wood, cedar—and Roan. Goosebumps prickle across my skin as I move deeper inside.
The main living area is all open concept—an immaculatekitchen to the left, a spacious living room to the right, and a hallway stretching towards the rest of the house. At the end, I spot stairs leading to the second level.
The kitchen draws my eyes. It’s beautiful, spotless, too perfect. Which only makes me more tense. He doesn’t need a maid to clean this place.
“You’re here.”
I jolt violently, my heart leaping into my throat as I spin around.
Roan’s standing at the foot of the stairs, arms folded across his chest, watching me with that unreadable expression. His gaze sweeps over me slowly before he steps closer.
“Yes,” I manage, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Your room’s upstairs. First door on the left.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice drops lower—that thick tone that makes something twist inside me. “You answer to me now.”
“I understand.” I don’t. I really don’t.
“You’ll keep the house spotless and stay out of trouble.”
My jaw tightens. “I know how to do my job.”
“Do you?” He closes the distance between us, and suddenly the air feels heavier, his presence overwhelming. “What job is that, exactly? I wonder sometimes.”
There’s a tension in his voice I can’t decipher. What’s he talking about? Something dark simmers in his green gaze. And he’s close enough now that I can feel the heat coming off him, smell the faint hint of his cologne.
