I never see them fully—he usually keeps them covered, hidden away, like they're only meant for certain people to know.

And now? Now I want to be one of those people.

I swallow hard, looking straight ahead. I try not to think about last night. Or how I might come again tonight.

Imagining his hands on my body, rough and steady.

Picturing him shoving everything off my desk and bending me over it.

Fantasizing about how his voice might sound when he loses control.

Oh God.

I really, really need to stop.

HE CALLS HER A PROJECT. I CALL HIM A CORPSE.

CAL

Izzy is tense.

I can see it in the tightness of her shoulders, the way she hurries her steps, like she's trying to outrun something.

Or maybe trying to outrun me.

Was it last night?

Did I push too far with Caleb?

The conversation had been fun. She'd seemed into it. The messages we exchanged had grown increasingly intimate, her responses eager, uninhibited. But now she won't even look at me directly.

Maybe I misread her.

Or maybe this has nothing to do with me at all.

Maybe it's Evan.

Maybe he did another dick thing before nine a.m. Another comment about her body, another passing critique disguised as concern.

That would make sense. Some men wake up and choose coffee. Evan probably wakes up and chooses to chip away at Izzy's confidence.

I hate that I don't know.

I watch as she turns her head slightly—just enough to glance back at me. The movement is subtle, almost imperceptible, but I catch it. The quick dart of her eyes in my direction before snapping back to the hallway ahead.

Like she's trying to sneak a look.

Teasing her is becoming a favorite pastime, watching her get flustered. The way her cheeks flush, the way she fumbles for words, the slight stammer that creeps into her voice when she's caught off guard.

But she already seems off her game.

I let her have this one.

When we get to her office, she moves inside first, immediately setting up at her desk, like she needs a barrier between us. Her space is meticulous—color-coded files, precisely arranged notebooks, and a whiteboard filled with what looks like inventory projections. Post-it notes line one edge of her computer monitor, each one written in neat, precise handwriting.

I pull up the security feed and take the chair beside her, leaning in to get a better view. The screen comes to life, displaying multiple angles of the store floor.

And that's when I catch it—her scent.

Fuck.

It’s soft with hints of vanilla and coconut. Feminine. Addictive. The kind of scent that doesn’t just linger, it haunts.

I love it.

It's not overpowering, not something that walks into the room before she does. It's subtle, personal—something you'd only notice if you were close enough.

And I am.

I let myself enjoy it. Let myself breathe it in, commit it to memory.

Then Izzy moves her chair slightly away from me.

I pause.

Not much. Just a small shift. Barely noticeable. The wheels roll softly against the carpet as she creates an extra inch of distance.

But I notice.

I take a slow breath and clear the air. My focus returns to the screens, to the job at hand.

"Who's the VIP?" I ask, watching her carefully.

She exhales, rubbing her fingers over her temples. "Some big-shot investor in the city. He does all his shopping here, so corporate treats him like royalty." Her voice carries a weary edge, like she's been through this routine too many times.

I watch her expression carefully. "And?"

She gives a small, tired smile. "And he also happens to be a shareholder in the store chain, which means he thinks he owns the staff. And he treats them like it. We always try to have him work with male clothiers only," she continues. "Because he gets exceedingly handsy with the women. But, just like with that other VIP, sometimes that doesn't work."

My fingers curl against my knee, nails digging into the fabric of my pants. "People like that shouldn't be tolerated."

She gives a humorless laugh. "I agree. But there's not much we can do unless he does something overt. And he's too smart for that."

I don't like how easily she says that.

Like it's just another thing she has to deal with.

Like she's already resigned to it. Like this is a normal part of her job description—managing men who think they own the right to touch whoever they want.

I watch the monitor as a man—mid-fifties, slick hair, tailored suit—lounges in one of the personal shopping suites. His posture communicates entitlement, the way he barely acknowledges the staff hovering nearby.

"Name?"

"Grant Monroe," she sighs. "Owns a dozen major properties in the city, and thinks he owns the women, too."

I glance back at the monitor.

Daniel is assisting Monroe. The VIP sits lounged back in his chair, looking bored. His Italian leather shoes shine under the recessed lighting, his watch glinting ostentatiously with every casual flick of his wrist.

Monroe's the type who expects to be entertained, who needs the staff jumping through hoops for him. I've seen his type before—men who measure their worth by how many people they can make bend to their will.

Daniel speaks to him, gesturing toward the racks of suits, but Monroe barely looks. His attention drifts around the room, disinterested.

Then something shifts in his expression.

His boredom fades. He says something back, and Daniel hesitates, his shoulders stiffening slightly. Izzy lets out a groan and puts her head in her hands.

I watch her. "What?"

She just points at her phone.

A second later, Daniel presses something on his headset, and Izzy's phone starts ringing.

She sighs, pulling it to her ear. "I'll be right there."

I lean back, already gritting my teeth. "What does he want?"

"He's insisting that he needs the store manager."

Of course, he is.

I push back my chair. "Great. I'll go with you, then." The legs scrape against the carpet as I stand, my decision already made.

She hesitates. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

She exhales. "He's a shareholder. He has friends in corporate. If I'm too aggressive, it could mean my job."

I don't like that answer.

I don't like that she has to play politics with men like this. That she has to smile and be professional with someone who doesn't deserve basic courtesy.

I run my tongue over my teeth, forcing myself to cool down. "I won't cause problems for you."

She smiles, small and grateful. "I know."

"But," I add, voice firm, "I'll be close. I'm going to stay in the employee area, watching the feed. If you need me—if things escalate—just say my name."

She nods, exhales, then straightens herself, bracing. I watch as she transforms before my eyes—shoulders back, chin up, expression smoothing into professional competence.

Before we leave, she quickly straightens a stack of reports on her desk. I glance down at what appears to be sales projections with handwritten notes in the margins. The figures are precise, detailed, with trend analyses that look more like something an accountant would produce than a store manager. She's clearly been tracking numbers meticulously, correlating data points that most people wouldn't even notice.

"You do all this?" I ask, gesturing to the reports.

She glances at them, then shrugs like it's nothing. "Corporate's projections always miss the mark. They don't account for local trends or repeat customer preferences. I track everything myself."