Page 8 of Taming Scarlet

When no one greeted me, I turned to look over my shoulder to see who’d come in.

“I don’t know you,” I said, slipping the portafilter into place, then turning on the machine.

“And yet you let me in,” he said.

That was a sexy voice.

All deep and smooth.

It was the kind of voice that shivered over you.

My gaze looked over him with more interest.

And, yeah, the rest of him went with that voice.

Sexy as all hell.

He had to be around six-three or four with wide shoulders under his navy suit—decent quality, but definitely not designer. I bet if you peeled those clothes layers off of him, you would find corded muscle and washboard abs.

As for the face, well, it belonged on billboards.

Chiseled jaw, a stern brow, etched cheekbone hollows, and these deep, dark brown eyes surrounded by the kind of thick lashes I had to pay for.

“Who are you?” I asked as the smell of espresso filled the open space.

“It’s freezing in here,” he said instead of answering, his gaze moving over toward where the door to the balcony was open.

“My dog is out there,” I objected when he walked over there to close the door.

“Your dog, if you can call it that, is on the couch,” he corrected me.

“Oh, Hugh, do you want munchies?” I called, watching him fly off the couch and rush toward me, doing his little dance in a circle as I pulled one of the bags of his prepared fresh food out of the fridge, emptied it onto a plate, warmed it, then set it on the floor for him.

“There is a strange man standing in your home, and you’re not concerned.”

I couldn’t tell if that was a question or a statement.

I grabbed my espresso, then went to the fridge to plop one of my coffee ice cubes into it, so I could chug it.

I hated espresso.

But my hangover wasn’t willing to wait for me to go out to get, or have someone deliver, one of my favorite mixed drinks.

“I’m assuming you are my new babysitter,” I said.

They had a look, all of them.

I had no idea where my father found them all, but they were all dressed well, with good posture, and that stern, disapproving look to them. Like it offended them on a personal level to be working for my father, like someone was forcing them to do it instead of paying them handsomely for the task.

It seemed like it didn’t matter how many of these guys I scared away, more were always at the ready.

“You could say that,” he agreed. “I’m Julian Flynn,” he said.

“I doubt you’ll be around long enough for me to learn that,” I said, reaching for my phone on the counter as it chimed time and time again.

New message from LaurieLoreCosmetics.

That sounded about right. Nothing got the attention of a company faster than a subpar review from someone with a few million followers.

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