Page 61 of My Only

Too busy being a damn flirt, I guess.

“I’m the interior designer on the project,” she supplied, smiling. “I work very closely with Hassani since I specialize in modern, sustainable luxury interiors. I’m designing all of the interiors in the commercial and business properties.”

She tilted her head, faux curiosity lighting her features. “Has he not mentioned me to you?”

“Not a word,” I said, holding her gaze.

“Hmph.” She feigned shock. “Strange.”

She turned to Hassani, her smile widening. “I’m shocked, Hass.”

He chuckled nervously.

And I was at my wits’ end with his damn chuckling.

“And,” Harper continued, casually combing her fingers through her hair, “since Hassani and I work so closely together and will be working closely together through the entire project, I guess you could say he’s kind of like my work husband.”

I blinked as hard as I jerked my head back. “Excuse me?!”

“She’s joking,” Hassani said quickly, tightening his hold around my waist. “She’s just joking.”

I stared at her, my face completely blank while she grinned at me like she hadn’t just disrespected me to my face.

See, I was used to women throwing themselves at Hassani.

They saw the light eyes, the handsome smile, the tall physique, the charm. It made sense. It was easy for them to want to be seen by him. I’d dealt with it for years, even before we started dating.

As teens, it was the girls who wanted his attention—who just needed him to look at them long enough for them to get lost in his eyes.

As adults? Same setup. The girls had just grown up.

But this one?

Harper Royce?

Nah.

She was different.

We had been speaking for five minutes, and I already saw how skilled she was at appealing to his interests.

It was deliberate.

Intentional.

But still discreet.

Like a scorpion hiding in a stiletto heel.

That D-Slam sculpture in my kitchen was hideous. Every piece of art that retired basketball player, Darren Slammons, made was ugly as hell. His work was widely critiqued for being overpriced nonsense. But here Harper was, acting like he was the next Michaelangelo. Like my husband was a genius for recognizing Darren’s so-called artistry.

She was leaning into this shared interest between them.

Except, I knew better.

I saw right through her shit.

The entire time she spoke to us, she only engaged with me when it helped craft the image she was trying to sell to Hassani.

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