Page 39 of Kentrell

Zoe’s eyes sparked—hazel turning damn near amber as she stared at me like I’d lost my mind.

"Are you not—why do you keep asking me the same question?" she burst out, throwing her hands in the air. "Mr. Caldwell, this arrangement isn’t going to work."

"Nah, it's gon' work." I shook my head, calm. "Since we on the same page."

She folded her arms. "And which page might that be?" Her brow furrowed, one heel tapping like a countdown.

"That you’re an attorneyin this building." I stepped closer, just enough for her to feel it.

She let out a short laugh, but it was dry. Nothing about her expression said amused. I could see her trying to figure me out, trying to reclaim ground.

"But beyond Hartman Towers…" I leaned in, voice lower now, more warning than promise, “it’s all fair game.”

Her head tilted. "Excuse me?—"

"I'll have my tenant history sent over by the end of the day." I cut in, stepping back.

"And I gotcho clothes.”

Her face scrunched in confusion. “What clothes?”

“K-Reese.” I nodded toward the bags as I walked over and placed them on the loveseat. That softened her for a split second—had her leaning in, lips parting like she was about to say something else.

But I was already heading for the door.

“I’ll see you later.”

"Mr. Caldwell!" Zoe called after me, voice sharp with authority—but laced with something else too. That hesitation. That pull.

I didn’t break stride. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t give her the satisfaction of a glance back.

She’d already thrown me off my square once, and if I turned around now, I’d fold her over that damn accent chair and make her forget every policy she ever signed. I could still smell her perfume clinging to my shirt. Still taste her on my lips. That shit was dangerous. Addictive.

But I remembered where we were.

Her title carried weight here. So I was gon’ let her wear it. Respect it. Uphold it. In this building, she could keep that distance. Be Ms. Davis. Attorney. Hard-lined. Untouchable.

But once she stepped outside Hartman Towers?

All bets were off.

And I meant that—on everything.

FOUR

ZOE

Fiddlingwith the buttons of my Balmain tweed jacket, I couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that this outfit was begging for trouble. For a fleeting moment, I felt like Dionne Davenport from Clueless, pulled straight from a pop-culture reel—unapologetically bold, immaculately styled. Escaping my friends last night had been a lost cause. After we left the gallery opening, they trailed me home like glitter on a hemline, eventually storming my bedroom and invading my closet with the zeal of seasoned treasure hunters.

They uncorked the wine I’d been saving for a quiet night in and spent two riotous hours excavating my wardrobe, flinging dresses and blouses across the bed like we were prepping for a fashion apocalypse. Under normal circumstances, I might have kicked them out after the first half-hour, but they insisted on playing stylist—demanding I model every look like I was auditioning for a role I never signed up for.

It wasn’t that I lacked style. Quite the opposite. But I dressed for power, not for play. Everything I wore had edges—sharp lines, precise tailoring, a quiet declaration that I belonged in boardrooms, not on anyone’s arm. Their fixation wasn’t aboutfashion; it was about Kentrell Caldwell. Subtlety had gone out the window. They were trying to transform me into someone daring—someone soft, alluring, and open to possibilities I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

And maybe… maybe that was why I kissed him back.

"Some kiss," I muttered, a quiet laugh slipping through my lips. But it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t innocent. Mr. Caldwell hadn’t kissed me—he had claimed me, tasted me like he had the right. He had awakened something in me, something wild and ravenous. Something that didn’t ask for permission.

My tongue brushed across my lips, then my fingers traced the outline, trying to recapture the heat he left behind. My eyes fluttered shut, and I pressed my thighs together, feeling that ache still pulsing where his hands hadn’t even touched. A shiver rippled through me. I opened my eyes and looked around, panicked for a moment that someone might have seen the way I was squirming in my chair. My gaze shot to the glass walls of my office.

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