Chapter 2
Natalie
Atowel.
One white towel slung low around his hips.
Water drips from his dark hair, sliding down his throat, his chest, the hard ridges of his stomach.
His tattoos are brighter against wet skin, curling over his shoulder and down his arm.
There are scars too, pale lines and rough marks that make him look less like a fantasy and more like a man who has survived real things.
Which, unfairly, makes him even more of a fantasy.
I forget to breathe.
He looks at me.
I look at him.
Then, because my eyes are apparently independent contractors with no supervision, I look lower.
The towel is hanging on through optimism and one tucked corner.
My entire body catches fire.
Jordan’s voice drops into the room, rough as gravel. “Are you going to take a picture, or are you going to leave?”
Perhaps taking a picture before leaving?
My mouth opens.
Nothing.
Not one word.
I am holding a framed photograph of him while staring at his naked chest.
There is no recovery from this.
“I knocked,” I blurt.
His eyebrow moves. Barely.
“I was in the shower.”
“Yes.” I nod, still clutching the frame. “I see that now.”
“You’re still checking me out.”
I snap my eyes to his face.
Mistake.
His face is worse.
He looks calm, stern, and unreadable, except his eyes are not calm. Those green-silver eyes are fixed on me with a heat that makes my knees soften and my thoughts turn into warm honey.
“I brought the contracts,” I say. “Left them on your desk.”
“On my desk?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you holding my picture?”
I look down.
The frame is still in my hands.
Wonderful.
I set it back so fast it knocks against a little bronze paperweight. The paperweight slides. I grab it. My elbow bumps the contracts. The contracts shift. I snatch at them too, because apparently my new career goal is desk avalanche prevention.
“Sorry. Sorry. I was just making sure everything was...” I glance around desperately. “Dust-free.”
Jordan says nothing.
Silence from him is not empty. It is a physical thing. It leans against me. It notices the pulse fluttering in my throat.
I step backward.
“I’ll go.”
“Careful.”
“I’m fine.”
The rug disagrees.
My heel catches the edge, and I stumble.
One second, the room tilts.
The next, Jordan is there.
His arm clamps around my waist and pulls me against him, firm and hot and damp. My palms land on his bare chest.
Oh.
Oh no.
He is solid under my hands. Warm skin. Hard muscle. Water. A heartbeat, strong and steady beneath my fingers.
My brain makes a soft, dying sound.
The towel slips.
I feel it happen more than see it.
Jordan catches it with his other hand.
I should be relieved, yet I am not. Which is between me and God.
His arm stays around my waist. His hand is broad against my back, fingers spread like he can hold all of me without trying. I am suddenly very aware of every place I am soft and every place he is not.
“Breathe,” he says.
I suck in air.
Bad idea. He smells like soap and clean skin and cedar. I want to bite him.
No. Absolutely not.
Professional Natalie is dead in a ditch.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Just once.
Quick.
But I see it.
My stomach flips so hard I almost sag deeper into the arm still locked around my waist.
“You always this clumsy?” he asks.
His voice is low. Almost lazy. Almost dangerous.
“Only when startled by unexpected nudity.”
His eyes sharpen.
I have said that out loud.
I have said unexpected nudity to my half-naked boss while touching his chest.
If the floor opens up now, I will not fight it.
For one heartbeat, something moves at the corner of his mouth.
Not a smile.
Jordan Richmond does not smile. He permits the idea of a smile to briefly approach the property line, then sends it away.
But still.
He almost smiled.
Then his face locks down again.
He steps back, taking his heat with him. My hands fall uselessly to my sides. He keeps one fist clenched around the towel at his hip.
“Out, Miss Mullen.”
“Yes.” I turn too quickly, then stop myself before the rug can finish the job. “Yes. Going. Very good plan.”
I make it three steps.
“Natalie.”
My name in his voice stops me cold.
Not Miss Mullen.
Natalie.
I look back before I can talk myself out of it.
He is still standing there in nothing but that towel, water dripping slowly from his hair to his chest. His eyes move over my face, my hands, my dress, then back to my eyes.
“Go outside and get some air. Looks like you need it.”
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me.”
The nerve of this man.
The absolute, towel-wearing nerve.
“I will.”
I lift one hand in what I hope is a professional gesture and not a surrender flag. “Contracts are on your desk.”
“I know.”
Right.
He knows.
Because I said that.
Twice.
I escape his office and close the door behind me with extreme care.
Then I lean back against it, shut my eyes, and press both hands to my flaming cheeks.
I have been in this job for one month.
One month.
And I have already touched my boss’s naked chest, insulted his photograph, stared at his towel, and disappointed myself by wishing gravity had been a little more committed.
From inside the office, there is a low sound.
A grunt.
Maybe irritation.
Maybe amusement.
Maybe Jordan Richmond’s official response to finding his secretary losing her mind in increasingly creative ways.
I push away from the door and hurry back to my desk, trying to walk like a normal person with normal knees.
My phone buzzes again under my notebook.
Lydia.
The name waits on the screen, pretty and sharp.
The real world trying to shove its way back in.
I ignore it for one more second.
Because my hands still remember Jordan’s skin.
Because he is a terrifying, tattooed, grunting mountain of a man who apparently escaped his mother’s guest-room invasion, walked into work in gray sweatpants, and still managed to catch his clumsy secretary before she hit the floor.
I sit down, stare at my untouched coffee, and take a shaky breath.
“Professional,” I whisper.
An hour later, the executive floor has filled with low voices, ringing phones, and the soft click of expensive shoes. I have almost convinced myself the morning is under control.
Then the elevator dings.
I look up.
Lydia steps out first, all glossy blonde hair, pink dress, and perfect smile.
Wesley follows beside her.
My stomach drops.
He looks different now. He has for months. No glasses after the eye surgery, no soft old hoodies, no shy smile meant only for me. Just styled hair, gym-built shoulders, and the polished confidence of a man who decided one day that I no longer fit beside him.
Lydia’s hand is tucked around his arm.
“Natalie,” she sings.
I stand. “Lydia. Wesley.”
“Hey, Nat,” Wesley says.
The nickname lands wrong now. Too familiar from a man who used to know every soft place in me and still chose where to cut.
Lydia’s gaze sweeps over my desk, my yellow dress, the executive floor behind me. Then she smiles like she found exactly what she came for.
“We wanted to bring this ourselves.” She holds out a cream envelope.
I know what it is before I take it.
Their wedding invitation.
Wesley used to call Lydia shallow. He used to say she only wanted things once someone else had them. He used to roll his eyes when she walked into the diner and whisper that I should brace myself.
Then he got new eyes, new muscles, new clothes, and apparently new taste.
My family took one look at the new Wesley and Lydia together and decided they made sense.
Pretty with pretty.
Polished with polished.
And me standing off to the side, holding on to the version of him who used to be my best friend.
I open the envelope with numb fingers.
My name sits there alone.
No plus one.
Lydia tilts her head. “You won’t need an extra seat, will you? I didn’t think so.”
I smile so hard it hurts. “How thoughtful.”
Wesley shifts. “Lyd.”
“What?” she says lightly. “She isn’t seeing anyone.”
Jordan’s office door opens behind me.
My pulse trips.
He steps out, and for one wild second, every terrible feeling in my chest goes quiet.
The suit he put on is dark and perfectly tailored, the crisp lines doing nothing to soften the size of him. His hair is combed back from his face, but his jaw still carries that rough shadow of stubble I have no business noticing. He looks expensive, dangerous, and completely out of reach.
Lydia notices.
Her smile falters for half a breath before she fixes it. Her gaze slides over him, bright and interested, and something hot and ugly twists in my stomach before I can stop it.
Wesley notices too.
He straightens, like posture can somehow make up for the difference between them.
Jordan’s gaze moves from Lydia to Wesley, then drops to the invitation in my hand.
His expression does not change.
“Who upset you?” he asks.
My throat closes.
Lydia blinks. “Excuse me?”
Jordan ignores her. His green-silver eyes stay on me, steady and sharp and far too knowing.
“Natalie.”
My name in his voice does terrible things to my knees.
“No one,” I say quickly. “They were just leaving.”
Wesley clears his throat. “We only brought her an invitation.”
Jordan turns his head toward him slowly, like Wesley has just made the dangerous mistake of reminding Jordan he exists.
Wesley goes quiet.
Lydia laughs softly. “A wedding invitation. Mine and Wesley’s. We didn’t include a plus one because Natalie isn’t seeing anyone.”
Jordan’s hand settles on my waist.
The room disappears.
His palm is warm and broad through my dress, his touch steady and possessive, like he already knows exactly where he belongs.
Lydia’s gaze drops to his hand.
Wesley’s does too.
Jordan pulls me a fraction closer, his thumb pressing once into my side.
“Yes,” he says.
Lydia’s smile cracks.
“She is.”
I stare at the invitation in my hand, because if I look at him, I might dissolve on company property.
Jordan’s voice drops lower.
“I’m her plus one.”