“Are you done supervising?” he asked.
“I’m conducting quality control.”
He turned then, meeting my gaze fully. “Your quality control seems very attentive.”
I refused to look away first. I also refused to acknowledge the way my stomach flipped. “I appreciate thoroughness.”
I shifted my weight, trying to look casual and not like a woman actively watching a shirtless man clean her bathroom. One of my crutches caught the edge of the doorframe, and I swore under my breath.
“Careful,” he said, glancing over.
“I’m fine.”
“You say that a lot.”
“It’s part of my brand.”
He moved toward the cabinet, and I realized too late that I was standing directly in front of it.
“I need something behind you,” he said.
“I can move.”
“You don’t have to.”
He stepped closer—not close enough to touch, but close enough that I could feel him there. The air between us shifted and narrowed. My grip tightened on the crutches before I could stop myself.
“You’re crowding me,” I said quietly.
“I’m reaching,” he said, just as quietly.
His arm rose beside my shoulder. His chest brushed the side of my crutch instead of me.
He knew exactly what he was doing, and knowing that, my pulse kicked hard.
He leaned in slightly, enough that his shoulder blocked the light for a second, and his scent hit me.
God, he smelled so good.
I stayed perfectly still.
“So,” I said, voice thinner than I wanted, “this is part of the dusting protocol?”
“Very advanced technique,” he murmured.
He’d found what he needed behind me, but he didn’t move away, and in that instant, I noticed everything about him.
The line of his throat. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The way he waited instead of pressing forward.
He pulled back slowly and straightened. “There,” he said. “Got it.”
I exhaled, which felt like a mistake. “Did you just flirt with me while holding cleaning supplies?”
He gave me a sly smile. “I might have.”
“That feels manipulative.”
“You were staring.”
