“Anyway, I said I’m not your masseuse,” I manage, scrambling for dignity while standing in front of a naked man who looks like he belongs on a billboard titled Poor Life Choices.
“Mm.” He takes a step closer. Still naked. Still infuriatingly relaxed.
I force my eyes to stay on his face. It’s a Herculean effort.
“No?” One eyebrow arches. “Shame. You look like someone who knows how to use her hands.”
The audacity. The sheer, unmitigated, breathtaking audacity.
“Wow.” I blink. “That’s possibly the most unoriginal line I’ve ever heard.”
The smirk turns into a grin, revealing perfect white teeth.
“Unoriginal works,” he says. “It gets results.”
“What results? Restraining orders?”
“You’re still here, aren’t you?”
He’s got an annoying point. I glare.
“That’s because I’m lost.”
“Funny,” he says. “You don’t look lost.”
“I very much am.”
His gaze flicks to the bench where I dropped my bag. My ID badge sits right on top, face up.
“Ivy,” he reads aloud. The way he says my name feels like a violation. “You sure about that?”
I move fast, snatching the badge and shoving it into my bag.“I didn’t give you permission to read that.”
“You walked into my room naked,” he counters.
“I did not—”
He grins. Wide. Sharp. Dangerous. “Kidding,” he says. “Mostly.”
I glare at him. Hard. “Put. Some. Clothes. On.”
“You don’t like what you see?” He gestures lazily at himself.
Heat blazes up my neck. My eyes snap back to his face. I need to save face. Now. I straighten to my full five-foot-two inches. “No,” I lie—unconvincingly.
“Then why were you checking me out like you’d never seen anything more impressive in your life?”
“I was verifying the anatomical accuracy of arrogance,” I shoot back. “It’s fascinating.”
His low, rough laughter vibrates straight through my bones.
He finally bends, retrieves the towel, and this time wraps it around his hips with exaggerated slowness—like he’s making sure I catch every second. My eyes flick down before I can stop them, then snap back up.
“So,” he says, gaze sweeping over me with open curiosity. “If you’re not my masseuse… what exactly are you doing here, Ivy?”
I straighten, lifting my chin. “I’m a researcher,” I say, lifting my chin. “Biomechanics. I have a doctorate—I study injury patterns in professional athletes.”
His expression shifts. Interest replacing mockery. “Is that right?”
