“Get it together.”
She was a businesswoman. A professional. She had driven out to Rhavor’s farm to secure a supplier—not to accidentally collide with his chest again.
Except suppliers didn’t usually look at you like they were deciding which part of you to devour first.
They did not smell likewoodsmoke, sun-warmed skin, and something darker coiled beneath.
And they most certainly did not have amber eyes that glowed when they were turned on.
She exhaled slowly and tightened her grip on the steering wheel.
Keep this professional.
You were vetting produce,she reminded herself sternly.
She had built her entire career on quality—on knowing exactly where her ingredients came from and how they were handled. That had meant trusted distributors and carefully structured contracts. Her suppliers were curated, impeccably vetted, and distant.
There had been no risk of colliding with them in a chicken yard.
Her mouth twitched despite herself.
It had been twenty-four hours.
And she had already ended up in Rhavor’s arms twice.
Twice.
That was not coincidence.
That was a pattern forming.
And it did not encourage professional boundaries.
The worst part?
She didn’t mind it nearly as much as she should have.
Not the first time.
Not the second.
And judging by the very evident, very distracting bulge straining against Rhavor’s denim when she had been pressed against him—he hadn’t exactly hated it either.
Why did his jaw have to be that square and his lips look so sexy when he couldn’t decide whether he was more annoyed or amused?
She had never met anyone so irritating.
So grumpy.
—who also turned her on like that.
She huffed as a strand of hair slipped into her eyes.
She needed a manual. Something titledHow to Conduct Business With Hot, Infuriating, Impossible Dragons Without Accidentally Flirting With Them.
She made a mental note to check the local bookstore.
Surely rural communities had practical literature.
