“That thing has to cost, like, ten million dollars.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“Please don’t,” I mutter to myself, already knowing.
The girls turn slowly, one by one, their expressions sliding from curiosity to delight.
“Aly,” Tasha says, eyes wide. “Isn’t that?—”
“Yes,” I groan, pressing my hands to my face. “It is.”
A few of them squeal under their breath, the sound half scandalized, half thrilled, like we’re in a bad reality show instead of real life.
“Your fiancé is insane,” someone whispers.
“Rich-insane,” another corrects.
I fight back a blush so hard it almost hurts, mortified and weirdly flattered all at once, because of course Kazimir wouldn’t just send a car like a normal person. Of course he would announce himself to the entire zip code.
Behind me, a warm, amused voice says, “Well, that answers my question.”
I turn to find Brooke standing there with her arms crossed and a sly, knowing smile curving her mouth.
“You knew,” I accuse softly.
She shrugs, eyes sparkling. “Let’s just say I got a very polite call this morning asking what time you finished your shift.”
The doors slide open with a soft hydraulic sigh, and the entire lobby seems to inhale at once. Conversation falters mid-sentence. Phones dip. Someone actually straightens their posture like we’re about to be inspected.
Kazimir steps inside like he owns the building. He doesn’t—I know that for sure—but you wouldn’t know it from how the staff step out of the way and greet him with shy smiles.
He’s wearing a linen shirt rolled at the sleeves, dark hair slightly wind-tossed from the helicopter, and the black lines of geometric tattoos crawl down his forearms to his knuckles. Something in me stirs to attention. It’s unfair how good he looks, standing there under the warm spa lighting. He doesn’t look like a crime lord, or a billionaire, or a man who terrifies half the eastern seaboard.
He looks like a man coming to pick up his girl.
Myman.
The thought only tightens that pull of possession in my belly.
His eyes find me immediately, cutting through the small crowd without hesitation, and the hard line of his shoulders softens. Kaz crosses the lobby in long, purposeful strides. The girls part for him automatically.
Suddenly, I feel aware of everything: my messy bun, my flushed cheeks, the pale green scrubs that make me look like a tired intern instead of the supposed fiancée of one of the most powerful men in the city.
“Kaz,” I whisper, half mortified, half relieved. “What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes my hand gently, turning it palm down, and presses a slow kiss to my knuckles.
My brain short-circuits.
“I am stealing you,” he says, voice low and certain. “Dinner. Now.”
I blink at him. “I’m wearing scrubs.”
His mouth twitches like he finds that adorable, which somehow makes it worse.
Before I can argue again, Tasha pops up beside us like an overeager fairy godmother, holding out a long cream-colored garment bag.
“We may have anticipated this,” she says brightly.
