I believed him.
So now, standing in another man's closet and noticing that he smells good? That his voice does something to my chest when he's being commanding?
It feels illegal.
Like I'm breaking some rule I didn't know existed.
You're allowed to find men attractive, I tell myself, moving a black shirt that's somehow ended up with the whites. You're separated. Almost divorced. Free.
But am I?
Jack still texts. Still calls. Still has my mother convinced I'm the villain in our story. The debt follows me everywhere. His name is on Lily's birth certificate, which means he has rights, which means I'm never truly free of him.
And Nico Sartori is my boss.
My very rich, very intimidating, very out-of-my-league boss who could have any woman in Chicago with a snap of his fingers. Women who know which fork to use at dinner. Women who haven't been broken down and rebuilt wrong by men who claimed to love them.
I finish with the shirts and move to check the shelves.
Everything is perfect. Folded precisely. Organized.
Control freak.
I step out of the closet, mentally checking off the task. Done. Easy. No weird feelings about touching his sweaters.
The bathroom door opens.
Steam rolls out first. Then Nico.
Water droplets cling to skin stretched over muscle. A white towel hangs low on his hips. Very low. The kind of low that makes me wonder about gravity and physics and whether God has a cruel sense of humor.
We both freeze.
His dark eyes lock onto mine. Surprise flickers across his face before something harder replaces it. His jaw tightens. Water trails down his chest in paths I absolutely should not be tracking.
Look away. Look away. Look away.
I don't look away.
My gaze drops to his shoulders first. Broad. Built for carrying weight. The kind of shoulders that could pin someone against a wall.
Stop.
I can't.
His chest is a canvas of contradictions. Smooth olive skin interrupted by scars. One thin white line curves beneath his left pectoral. Another, thicker and angrier, slashes across his ribs.
His abs contract as he breathes. The V of his hips disappears beneath that towel, and my mouth goes dry. Actually dry. Like someone stuffed cotton in my throat.
This is your boss. Your BOSS. The man who signs your paychecks.
But my body doesn't care about paychecks.
Heat crawls up my neck. My pulse thrums in places it has no business thrumming. I'm suddenly aware of every inch of my own skin, like his gaze is touching me even though he hasn't moved.
"Kristen."
His voice cuts through the steam. Low. Controlled. My name sounds different in his mouth. Heavier.
