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Then another.

And because apparently I've lost every ounce of subtlety I've accumulated over forty years—I get caught staring.

“My eyes are up here, Mr. Knight.”

I lift them.

She's staring at me. One eyebrow raised.

No embarrassment.

No coy smile.

Just challenge.

I lean back in my chair.

“I'm aware.”

“Could've fooled me.”

“You walked into my office wearing a white shirt over a black lace bra.”

Her mouth drops open. Just slightly.

Victory.

Then her eyes narrow.

“You know, most men would at least have the decency to pretend they didn't notice.”

“First, I've never claimed to be most men.”

“Clearly.”

“Second, I’m not sure what kind of men you’re acquainted with, but I can guarantee that most men would’ve had their attention precisely where mine was the moment you stepped into this room.”

She frowns a little, and I don’t like it. Like maybe she thinks I’m making that up or trying to flatter her. I’m not. It’s just a fact.

The moment passes, and she crosses the office. My attention threatens to drop again.

I don't let it. Mostly because she's watching for it now. Also, because the sudden thought of every other man she encountered between her apartment and my office noticing the same thing irritates me far more than it should.

Who saw her this morning?

Who else noticed? Stared?

Did she take an elevator full of employees to get up here?

Did some asshole stand behind her enjoying the view?

My jaw tightens.

Jesus.

This is absurd. She isn't mine. She's barely even my houseguest yet. And I have no business caring who looks at her.

Tell that to the possessive bastard currently imagining issuing a company-wide memo about appropriate elevator behavior.