Except professionals don't look at you the way he looked at me during the will reading. Don't position their bodies between you and every exit like they're ready to kill anyone who gets too close. Don't sayif he touches you again, I'll break every fingerwith the casual certainty of someone who's done exactly that before.
Professionals don't make you wet just by existing in the same room.
"You should be asleep."
His voice comes from the shadows near the window. Low. Rough. The voice of a man who's been watching me stand here in silk and hasn't said a word until now.
I don't turn around. "So should you."
"I don't sleep much."
"Guilty conscience?"
"No conscience at all." Footsteps, soft on hardwood despite his size. Moving closer. "That's why they hired me."
The air shifts when he stops behind me. Close enough that I feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough that his breath stirs the hair at my neck.
Not touching.
The not-touching is worse.
"What are you doing out here, Isabelle?"
My name in his mouth. That accent wrapping around each syllable like a threat and a promise had a baby and named itbad decisions.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Nightmares?"
"Something like that."
I turn.
He's close. Closer than I expected. Those grey eyes are almost black in the darkness, fixed on my face with an intensity that makes my lungs forget how to work. He's wearing a black t-shirt stretched across his chest, sweatpants slung low on his hips. Barefoot.
Human.
He looks almost human like this.
The thought should comfort me. It doesn't.
"You need to stop looking at me like that," he says quietly.
"Like what?"
"Like you're thinking about something that'll complicate this arrangement."
"What if I am?"
His jaw tightens. "Then you should stop."
"And if I don't want to?"
I step closer. Close enough that the silk of my robe brushes against his chest. Close enough that I can smell him—cedar and smoke and something darker underneath. Something that makes my hindbrain light up with every warning I have no intention of heeding.
My therapist would have a field day with this. Too bad I fired her three weeks ago.
"Isabelle." His voice is strained. Controlled. The voice of a man holding himself back by a thread. "You're grieving. You're not thinking clearly?—"
