Kissing Under Oath (Romance Truism #6)

1. Lauren

LAUREN

Not me. I never screw up. The owner's suite has two keys—one in my hand, one in a security vault requiring biometric scanning.

Housekeeping has authorization windows. Nothing without notice. I designed the protocols.

The elevator opens anyway.

I don't stand up. Wine in my hand—Pinot Noir, two-forty a bottle—and my iPad glowing with fourth quarter reports.

Three-point-two percent above forecast. Everything locked down tight.

A stranger is standing in my sanctuary.

Fifty-second floor. Los Angeles spread below—crystalline, unapologetic.

The one place I come to strip away performance. Nineteen years building an empire, and this is the only space without scaffolding.

I set the wine down. My hand finds my chest for a beat—panic I can't show—then drops. Power means control.

He steps out carrying a leather overnight bag. Maybe thirty. Dark hair.

Expensive casual wear that screams effortless. Blue-green eyes bright with old money and zero stress. I've seen it at Princeton, at every country club.

The ease of inheriting the assumption you belong everywhere. But the jaw catches me—sharp, clean, belonging to a man who hasn't learned what worry does to a face. His forearms below rolled sleeves, tanned and corded.

Something tightens low in my stomach that has nothing to do with the wine.

His eyes register surprise. Then assessment. Then amusement—as if it's nothing to interrupt a woman's evening.

"There's been an error," I say before he can open his mouth. A gap between what I'd planned and what is actually standing in my living room.

He sets the bag down. A key in his hand. Proof he belongs here.

"I'm Caleb Torres. Apex Capital." His voice is different—someone stating facts, no suggestion he'd ever need to raise it. "Philip Blackwood's office confirmed the arrangement this afternoon."

He looks around the suite without being overwhelmed by luxury. Just registering it.

"I'm staying here while I audit this place."

Philip Blackwood. The acquisition from three months ago. Apex Capital's assessment.

I'd known the auditor was coming. Not at midnight. Not in my suite.

"Reservations can provide an equivalent suite," I say. "The Plaza Suite. Nineteenth floor. Ocean view."

"No need." He walks deeper into the suite without asking. I let him because showing I'd been wrong costs me leverage.

"Two bedrooms. Common living area. I'm here eight weeks. Might as well make this efficient."

He catalogs the space like a spreadsheet. Minimalist furniture, architectural lighting, every calculated choice.

"Your office arranged this without informing me," I say carefully.

"I'm informing you now." He sets the bag beside the sofa. "I'm Caleb. Apex Capital. I identified your company as undervalued." He straightens. "Two hundred and thirty million dollars. I'm staying here. We have a problem."

I could throw him out—admit Apex has bypassed me, that I've missed something. Or I could let him stay.

I built this from nothing. Bakersfield to Los Angeles. He'd been born to it.

Inside my lie. Inside the current I've channeled so carefully. The undertow is performance.

"The guest bedroom is yours. Everything else has boundaries."

He smiles. He's already decided which ones to ignore. "I'll try not to touch your wine."

I pick the glass back up. The wine has warmed.

He is paying attention. Eyes moving across me, assessing.

"The problem with holding all the cards," I say, "is someone always calls your bluff."

He doesn't flinch. Just nods, waiting for me to say something worth hearing.

"Guess we'll find out whose hand is stronger," he says.

I turn back to the city. The lights hold their geometry.

He is watching me. Listening to what I'm not saying.

"Don't mistake silence for permission. Some boundaries don't need stating."

He steps toward the hallway. My eyes do something my brain hasn't authorized—track down his body. His shoulders.

The taper of his waist.

The way his jeans sit on his hips and shape what is behind them. He has the body of a man who hasn't learned to be careful with it. Watching him walk away feels like wanting something I shouldn't.

My thighs press together against the leather of the sofa. A reflex.

The oldest reflex. The kind that doesn't care about protocols or age gaps or the fact that this man is here to dismantle my empire.

His smile says he understands exactly what I've left unsaid.

I suspect he already has. Sharing a suite with a man thirteen years younger whose jeans fit like that is going to be a different kind of audit entirely.