I stepped inside, barely registering the interior before realising he was already halfway down the hall. I hurried after him, my shoes tapping softly against the polished floor.
He stopped in front of a closed door. I walked past him without thinking.
The door shut behind me with a soft click, but I kept moving until I reached the window. The back garden stretched out below—large, deliberate, and immaculately planned. A small seating area sat beside a stone firepit, steps leading down to another section of lawn. Other than the stonework, there was nothing but grass.
Perfect grass.
I narrowed my eyes.
Not a single weed. Not one stray leaf.
“Miss Byron,” a voice drawled behind me, smooth and unhurried.“Please take a seat.”
“Would you like me to sit on the couch or lie—” I began, sarcasm dripping off every word, but when I turned to face him, my voice died in my throat.
Oh no.
Was this my parents’revenge?
He wasn’t old. Not even close. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Baby-blue eyes that assessed without staring. Sexy stubble framing a mouth that looked far too practiced at calm. Thick hair sat on his head like a crown, dark and effortless.
Confidence rolled off him, casual and assured, like it was second nature.
“Whatever makes you more comfortable,” he said, tapping a finger lightly against his lips.
Was he allowed to do that?
“Sorry?” I asked, stupidly.
“Sit or lie down. It’s up to you.”
I edged away from the window and lowered myself onto the dark brown leather couch. He took the chair opposite me.
Oh God.
He spread his legs.
Why were his trousers so tight?
I grabbed my purse and tugged the strap taut, clutching it to my lap as though my cheap bag could form some kind of barrier between us. Protection. Distance. Anything.
I made the mistake of looking at his hair again.
Dark waves threaded with slivers of grey. More pepper than salt in his stubble. Long lashes that softened eyes that absolutely did not need softening.
Unique.
I was cursed.
Chapter 4
Stella
He wasn’t even looking at me. He had picked up a notepad and begun writing, his pen moving steadily across the page as though I weren’t sitting directly in front of him.
Dear God almighty.
What had my parents told him?
