Page 25 of Star Claimed Omega
At first, Soleil edged on cagey and cautious.
She was here to work. That was the arrangement.
Yet her mind, body, and soul didn’t get the memo.
Every time his voice curled around her name, Soleil, it sent scorching, unprofessional, undignified desire through her.
When she mumbled and stumbled over her replies, Santi never pressed.
He gave her space as she rushed off to her duties.
She had excellent reason to avoid his rumbled questions that almost always bypassed the walls of her heart.
For if he peeked under her hood, he’d find her secrets and the biting, ugly truth of what she’d been forced to become.
Still, she began to look forward to when he greeted her at the door with a lazy ‘Mornin’,cariño.’
Damn that timbre; it was hoarse, raw, and velvet-rich, always sending a tight arc of need through her core.
However, she mumbled a reply each time and slipped past him with her hover kit, pretending her heart wasn’t thudding like a war drum in her chest.
She heard him on calls, that deep voice of his rolling over her like syrup.
Smooth. Lethal. Measured.
Yet so freakin’ rasped, hoarse, and delicious.
One morning, he wandered into the kitchen as she wiped down a counter, his movements easy, unhurried.
He poured himself a cup ofkahawa, the steam curling between them.
‘Do you always dodge small talk with your clients,’ he said, his utterance, rich and sinful as the brew he dispensed, ‘or is it just me? Do I put you off?’
She didn’t glance up, just kept wiping.
Her soul lurched, but she masked it with a slight, practiced smile. ‘I avoid chatter with men who look like trouble and sound like temptation. Keeps my shift clean and my conscience clearer.’
He chuckled, deep and smooth. ‘That wounds me,mi sol.’
She stilled, cloth in hand. ‘What did you call me?’
He took a slow sip, eyes on her over the rim of his glass. ‘You remind me of sunshine,’ he rasped. ‘Thus the name. It’s Spanish. Do you mind?’
She flushed, thought about it quickly, and found she liked it. ‘Not really.’
He swiveled to face her, eyes narrowed, eyes flicking over her hair, face, and freckles. ‘You’re the kind of woman whose beauty is seared into the souls of men.’
‘Stop.’
His smile curved with genuine intent, as was his shrug. ‘I call it how I see it,guapa. Which means, beautiful woman.’
With that, he pushed off and sauntered away.
Leaving her perplexed.
The next time she came by, there was a rare, handwritten note on the counter, the ink neat but forceful:
Sante for your hard work. A tidy space isn’t just about looking presentable; it’s about the sense of home it imbues. What you do is appreciated.– S
