All three of us turn toward the kitchen entryway.
And then she appears.
Sloane Heart walks down the stairs and I swear to God, time stops.
She’s wearing my gray sweatsuit.
My. Gray. Sweatsuit.
The pants are enormous on her—an ocean of soft cotton draped over her curves—and the sweatshirt hangs mid-thigh, sleeves swallowing her hands. It’s the most shapeless, plain, comfort-only item of clothing I own.
But on her feet?
She’s wearing the same glossy black stilettos from last night.
The contrast is so absurd and so confidently blasphemous that she looks like she stepped straight out of aVogueeditorial titled:
“Walk of Shame, But Make It Couture.”
She doesn’t look like a woman sneaking away after shower sex.
She looks like a queen who conquered a kingdom and wore the enemy’s clothes as a trophy.
Nate freezes mid-sentence.
His jaw drops so far I’m afraid it’ll hit the floor. His eyes flick from the heels, to the oversized sweats, to Sloane’s face—and in that exact moment, I understand that my personal definition of“I’m fucked”has entered a brand-new dimension.
Silence hits the kitchen—thick, heavy, suffocating.
Nate is petrified.
His mouth is hanging open like a stunned trout. If a fly wandered in, he’d probably choke, and I’m not sure I’d care right now.
I glance at Dominic.
He does not look surprised.
Not even remotely.
He just shakes his head slowly, the universal sign forI expected nothing less from these idiots.
Sloane reaches the bottom step. The click-clack stops on the hardwood.
She pushes a hand through her messy hair—a gesture so sexy, so effortless, my fingers twitch with the urge to touch her again.
But her eyes don’t look for me.
They go straight to Dominic.
“Good morning to you too, Grumpy,” she rasps, voice thick with sleep and sin.
Dominic makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a sigh.
“Sloane.”
That’s all he says. A clipped acknowledgment.
She smiles—a crooked, dangerous smile—then turns to the human salt column formerly known as my manager.
