He just casually sits there in sweatpants that probably cost more than my monthly rent and keeps looking at the papers I gave him with a mixture of awe and panic. Occasionally, he picks up a document and reads a line aloud. And that’s enough to make my cheeks burn. He’s almost kind of cute when he’s trying to make sense of the legal jargon.
I force myself to stop staring at him. That’s awkward. “You’re unbearable.”
He flashes a crooked grin. “Still your favorite client.”
I snort and return to typing. “Keep dreaming.”
Favorite client. Absolutely not. No way. Definitely—damnit, Jenna, focus. I just deleted three words I misspelled.
“We need a bulletproof timeline,” I say. “No gaps. No contradictions. Judges live to tear you apart the moment you slip.”
“You won’t let that happen,” he murmurs, shoving a mouthful of noodles in. He has a really nice mouth.
I freeze. Wait. He didn’t ask that as a question. He stated it as fact. My stomach does an inconvenient flip. I used to daydream that the cool guys would notice me, just once. Ridiculous, I know—but teenage me would’ve killed for this.
“Only if you do exactly what I tell you,” I reply, trying to sound firm.
“I do.”
“Always?”
“I try.”
I arch an eyebrow. “That’s not reassuring.”
He shrugs, stabs more noodles with his chopsticks, and keeps eating as if he hasn’t just wrecked my entire nervous system. Incredible.
I force my eyes back to the screen. It’s just because he’s good looking. That’s why. “Okay. Your career. We have to use it strategically.”
“How?”
“Stability. Income. Public image. You’re not a liability—you’re an asset. Understand?”
I look up to check if he’s following, but he’s got soy sauce at the corner of his mouth, completely unbothered, leaning back on my couch like he belongs there.
Before I can stop myself, I lean in and swipe it away with a napkin from the delivery service.
And just like that, the room goes still.
Even I feel it—like the air itself just tripped over what I did.
Oh. Shit. Shit. Shit.
That was… a thing.
A very noticeable, very unnecessary thing.
My hand lingers a second too long before I pull it back like it’s been caught doing something illegal. I sit back quickly, clearing my throat. “You had something on your face.”
His brows lift slightly. “Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting,” he says, like he doesn’t believe me at all. “And here I thought you were just looking for an excuse to touch me.”
My cheeks heat instantly. “I was not. I was correcting a hygiene issue.”
“Mhm. So… it’s your professional opinion that I needed face maintenance.”
