Because let’s be honest—Dalton King was gorgeous. Brutally, unfairly, distractingly gorgeous. Those broad shoulders that stretched his flannel shirt tight across his back. The way his jeans hung low on narrow hips. Arms that looked like they could toss hay bales—or women—around without breaking a sweat.
And his hands. God, those hands. Big enough to palm a basketball. Calloused. Strong. The kind of hands that would know exactly how to—
Stop it.
I shook my head hard enough that my ponytail whipped against my cheek.
This was exactly the kind of thinking that got women in trouble.
He was not interested. He’d made that abundantly clear with his little speech about not being up for grabs. Like I was some desperate woman who’d throw herself at the first hot guy she encountered.
Although, to be fair, my body clearly hadn’t gotten the memo. It had very much noticed when he’d stood behind me at that desk. When his breath had blown across my neck. When his voice had rumbled through me like distant thunder.
My nipples had tightened. My core had clenched. And for one mortifying second, I’d wanted to lean back into all that heat and muscle and see what happened.
Thank God I hadn’t.
Because Dalton King didn’t want me. Men like him never did. They wanted the willowy blondes with flat stomachs and thigh gaps. Not short, curvy brunettes who’d been told more than once they had such a pretty face—the universal code for—shame about the rest of you.
I sighed and got back to work.
The morning passed in a blur of numbers and notes and the slow, methodical work of untangling financial chaos. I was so engrossed that I didn’t hear him come in.
“Did you eat?”
I jumped at the sound of his voice, my hand flying to my chest. “Do you practice being quiet?”
Dalton was standing in the doorway, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t read. My heart kicked hard against my ribs. He was too big for the doorway, too big for this room, too big for the space he was taking up in my brain when I should have been thinking about invoice discrepancies.
Stop it. Stop noticing him. Stop cataloging every damn detail like you’re a teenager with a crush. He’s here to yell at you for something, not sweep you off your feet.
“You eat?” he asked again.
“I—no. I got caught up in the files.”
His jaw tightened. “It’s after two.”
“Is it?” I glanced at the clock. He was right. “I didn’t realize.”
“Kitchen. Now.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Kitchen. You’re going to eat.”
“I’m fine. I’ll grab something later—”
“Amber.” My name was an order and damn if that didn’t send a shiver down my spine. “Kitchen. Now.”
I should have argued. I was an adult perfectly capable of deciding when to eat. But there was something in his tone—not quite concern, not quite command—that made me stand and follow him down the hall.
Besides, arguing would mean prolonging the conversation. Looking at him longer. Risking him seeing the flush I could feel creeping up my neck.
The kitchen was bigger, and much more modern, than I’d expected. All stainless steel and granite counters and windows that let in the weak February sunlight. Dalton moved through it with the ease of someone who knew exactly where everything was.
He pulled bread from a cabinet. Deli meat and cheese from the fridge. Mustard. Lettuce. Tomatoes.
“Sit,” he said, nodding toward the table.
