I glance at his watch—an obvious luxury piece I only recognize because rich people love to flaunt them at the hotel. Ten grand minimum. And yet here he is, rolling up his sleeves to make pizza in the same meticulous fashion he has done everything else so far.
The tattoos on his forearms draw my eye again and this time, I catch ornate lettering forming a phrase in a language I don’t recognize.
I’m still squinting when thedrip dripof my soaked sweater pulls me back to reality. The damn thing is weighing me down like a wet wool blanket.
I try to shrug it off?—
Big mistake.
My arms get stuck mid-exit, tangled in damp fabric, and my foot slips on the floor. Again.
I brace for impact. Again.
But, again… it never comes.
“You really need to be more careful with slippery surfaces, Daisy Love.”
His voice is sharp this time, like he’s biting the words out. But honestly, I’m not sure because I’m still trapped in the soaked fabric of death.
“I—it’s just a little puddle,” I mumble from inside the sweater cocoon, wriggling helplessly.
He grips my waist with one hand, steadying me, and with the other, he peels the sweater off in one fluid motion like it’s the easiest thing in the world, freeing me from certain suffocation.
I blink up at him.
“Thanks,” I whisper, feeling ridiculous and a little breathless.
I try to tame my wet hair but freeze when I catch the look on his face. He’s staring, no,watchingme with this intensity that makes my skin burn.
It’s not just the tank top I’m wearing now, black and mercifully less revealing than last time. It’s the way he looks at me. Like he wants to grab me and… I don’t know. Consume me? Maybe snap my neck?
Honestly, I can’t tell.
His thumb grazes the sliver of skin between my waistband and the hem of my tank top, and my stomach flips.
I’ve only ever seen this kind of look in two scenarios—someone’s horny, or someone wants to strangle somebody.
Unfortunately, (fortunately?) I’m no expert in either department.
I can’t seem to get a read on what he’s thinking at all.
Then, just as suddenly, he drops his hand, steps back, and shoves my soaked sweater against my chest.
Charming.
Okay. Maybe hedoeswant to murder me.
Before I can listen to the little voice in my headscreamingI should run, he speaks.
“You were out in a storm again. Alone. In the dead of night.”
Not a question. A statement.
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking just beneath the surface.
Is he… angry?
“Um, yeah. I finished my shift and got hungry on the way home.” I cross my arms. “Not that it’sanyof your business.”
