I didn’t mean to be such an ass.
Okay. That’s only half true.
But I’m not usually like that.
I know my reputation. Cocky. Mouthy. The kind of guy people assume enjoys steamrolling others for sport. But most days? I’m decent. Better than decent, according to my siblings. Reliable. Protective. The guy who shows up.
Hell, ask the rookies. I’m the guy who makes sure they don’t drown their first season.
But Ivy?
She walked in with that ramrod spine and those big, scandalized eyes, like she’d never seen a naked man outside an anatomy textbook—and my instincts kicked in. She was so easy to fluster. A live wire pretending to be steel-reinforced concrete. One smirk, one step closer, and she short-circuited in the cutest, angriest way imaginable.
The way her eyes betrayed her?
Yeah. That did things to me.
I grin again, replaying it.
The insults. Sharp. Educated. The way she tried to stand taller—what was she, five-two?—like height was a matter of willpower.
Most women don’t look at me like I’m an inconvenience. They look like they’re already negotiating with themselves. Ivy looked like she wanted to throw a textbook at my head and then apologize to the textbook.
I chuckle again as I turn toward the bench, reaching for my water bottle.
That’s when I see it.
A phone.
Black case. Screen dark. Sitting right where Ivy dropped her bag.
Huh.
I step closer, frowning slightly. It must’ve slipped out when she dumped her things. Figures. She was too busy being outraged—and trying not to stare at my dick—to notice.
I pick it up. She’ll be looking for it. I’ll have to give it back.
I’m still staring at it when the door opens again.
“Sorry,” the massage therapist says, cheerful and brisk. “Running a minute late.”
My hand moves on instinct. Quick. Thoughtless. Automatic.
I bend to grab my gym bag like I’m just rearranging my stuff—and in one smooth motion, I slip Ivy’s phone into the side pocket.
Zip.
I’ll figure out what to do about it later.
“You ready?” the therapist asks, snapping on gloves.
“Yeah.” I drop onto the table. “All set.”
She starts working my shoulder, firm and practiced. I stare at the wall, but my mind is already elsewhere—five-foot-two, furious, brilliant, and definitely about to realize she’s lost her phone.
And when she does?
She’ll come looking.
