I force myself out of bed and into the bathroom, needing a shower to wash away the evidence of last night's activities. The marble bathroom is bigger than my childhood bedroom, all gleaming surfaces and expensive fixtures. There are fresh towels on the rack, toiletries lined up on the counter, all from high-end brands I recognize from magazine advertisements.
This is Richard's world. Money and luxury and everything I've never had and never will.
The shower is incredible: multiple heads, perfect water pressure, temperature that stays exactly where I set it. I stand under the spray for longer than necessary, trying to figure out my next move.
I can't stay here forever. Richard said no timeline, but that's just him being generous. I need to get my own life together, become independent, stop being a burden on the man who's already done more than enough.
But first, I need to find him. Thank him properly for last night, for everything. Maybe discuss logistics, next steps, all the practical things we didn't cover at four in the morning.
I dry off and dig through the closet, finding jeans that fit perfectly and a soft burgundy sweater. I leave my hair down, apply minimal makeup from the supplies that are somehow also stocked in the bathroom, and take a deep breath before heading downstairs.
The house is even more impressive in daylight. All clean lines and expensive art and views of the forest that go on forever. I wander through rooms trying to orient myself, looking for any sign of life.
"Can I help you find something, dear?"
I spin around to find an older woman with kind eyes and graying hair pulled into a neat bun. She's wearing an apron and holding a dish towel.
"I'm looking for Richard," I say. "Mr. Kane, I mean."
"He's in the gym. Third door on your left down that hallway." She points. "Can I get you some breakfast?"
"I—maybe later? Thank you, Mrs. Annie."
She smiles warmly and disappears back toward what I assume is the kitchen, and I head in the direction she indicated.
A home gym. Of course Richard has a home gym. Probably state-of-the-art equipment, personal trainer quality, the works. I find the door and pause with my hand on the handle. Should I knock? Just walk in? This is his house, his private space. Maybe I should wait and find him later when—
The decision is made for me when I accidentally lean on the handle and the door swings open.
And I get my first look at a shirtless Richard Kane.
Oh. Oh!
He's on some kind of weight machine, his back to me, and I freeze in the doorway unable to form a coherent thought. Because Richard Kane at forty-five is... Jesus Christ.
His back is broad, tapering to a narrow waist, and I watch muscles flex and shift under tanned skin as he pulls the weights. Sweat gleams on his shoulders, drips down his spine, and I have the sudden insane urge to lick the path it traces.
He sets the weights down and reaches for a towel, and that's when I see his chest. Defined pectorals, visible abs that would put men half his age to shame, a dusting of dark hair that trails down past the waistband of his workout shorts.
I'm staring. Openly gaping like I've never seen a man's torso before.
But I haven't seen one like this. Nathan was built fine. Gym-rat muscles that were more for show than function, but this is different. This is a mature man's body, and it's doing things to me that are absolutely inappropriate given our situation.
Richard turns, finally sensing my presence, and our eyes meet.
"Belle." My name comes out slightly breathless, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. "I didn't hear you come in."
"I was looking for you," I manage to get out, proud that my voice sounds almost normal. "Mrs. Annie said you were here, but I had no idea you were... working out."
One corner of his mouth quirks up. Not quite a smile, but close. "That's generally what people do in gyms."
He lifts the towel to his hair, rubbing it roughly, and I watch water droplets scatter. Some land on his chest, trailing down through that dark hair, and I have to physically force myself not to track their path with my eyes.
When he lowers the towel, his hair is gorgeously messy, strands falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger, more approachable. Less like the intimidating billionaire and more like just... a man.
A devastatingly handsome man who's currently shirtless and sweaty in front of me.
I should say something. Anything. But my brain has apparently short-circuited, all coherent thought replaced by the overwhelming awareness of his body, his proximity, the way his chest is still rising and falling from exertion.
