Page 11 of Jealous Boss

“She…it’s my fault. I was supposed to give her a list, but I forgot. I texted her to apologize. We’ll get it sorted tomorrow.”

“So you resorted to eat a meal that’s all frozen sugar? That’s not acceptable.”

Her eyebrows pinch. “It’s just ice cream. It’s not like I eat this every night.”

I take a slow breath, trying not to look at the way her legs disappear under those shorts. Trying not to think about how long they are. Or how the material hugs her smooth, juicy hips.

“I’m not letting you starve one floor down from me,” I mutter. “Come upstairs.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. “To your…?”

“My condo?” I bite out. “Yes. Mine.”

Her eyes sparkle for a moment before it dims, like a thought just occurred to her. “I don’t want to inconvenience you, Mr. Villiers. I know you work late sometimes. I’m not very hungry, honestly.”

“I promised your uncle I’d check in on you. And the first time I do, you’re having ice cream for dinner. Clearly you need me to look after you. So you’re having dinner with me. I already cooked.”

It’s a lie. But she doesn’t need to know that.

She hesitates, standing there in the soft evening light, like she’s turning over the weight of what I’ve just asked. And maybe she feels it too—that crackle in the air, that thing we’re not supposed to acknowledge.

Because this is wrong.

So wrong.

But she nods.

“Okay,” she says softly. “Let me grab a sweatshirt.”

I watch her disappear into the bedroom, my hands fisting at my sides.

* * *

What the hellam I doing?

I shouldn’t have invited her over.

I definitely shouldn’t have watched her walk up ahead of me into the elevator wearing that damn oversized hoodie that still didn’t hide the lower curves of her ass.

She didn’t change her shorts, and she’s seated now at my kitchen island, bare legs crossed, twirling a glass of water in her small hands while I pretend to focus on the sauté pan in front of me.

Pretend.

Because all I can feel is her.

In my space.

Breathing the same air.

Like this isn’t some colossal mistake waiting to explode in my face.

“Is it bad to say you don’t seem like the type who cooks?” she says.

I don’t answer right away. I feel her eyes digging into my back. And I should probably make conversation since I fucking invited her into my space.

But I’m balancing on the edge of something jagged.

Something hot and raw and obscenely forbidden.

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