only worse.
Because it’s Nate.
He’s been talking for at least five minutes. Maybe ten. I haven’t absorbed a single word.
My head is full of one thing.
Sloane.
Sloane in the shower.
Her naked chest pressed against mine.
Her drenched tailored pants sliding off.
Her skin on my hands.
Her body wrapped around mine.
And then that damn word:mistake.
God.
I am a walking disaster.
I’m experiencing this moment like I’ve left my own body—half stunned that I gave in again and half… well, hell, Sloane is a dream.
A dream that can kick your ass with the tip of her stiletto and crush your heart before you even notice.
So yeah, in summary: I’m a fucking mess.
“…you cannot afford another distraction or another blurry tabloid photo of you with a ‘mysterious woman’ in your room! This is PR Management 101, for Christ’s sake!”
Nate’s voice finally cuts back through the fog.
Right. He’s talking. And ranting. And I’m supposed to answer at some point.
“You’re personally sabotaging everything you’ve worked for. The press isthis closeto resurrecting the ‘Becker Never Changes’ headlines. And if someone had seen you with a girl—”
He’s still going.
Dominic is leaning on the counter, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He hasn’t said a word.
Hedoes, however, keep smirking into his coffee.
Bastard.
“…so now I want a rational explanation. Who the hell was in your room?” Nate demands, that forehead vein pulsing dangerously.
Before I can even consider lying, a sound comes from the stairs.
Not footsteps.
Click-clack.
Sharp. Rhythmic.
Stilettos.
