Page 43 of Guarded King

Once I’m inside, I step up to the elevator, only to find that it’s out of order. From how old the sign is, it’s been that way for a while. It gives me pause. How does Chloe’s dad deal with getting up and down the stairs? Or is he stuck inside day after day? I don’t know anything about rheumatoid arthritis or how debilitating it might be.

Maybe I need to find out.

Now that Chloe works for me, it makes sense that I should learn more about what she’s dealing with after hours.

I make my way up the stairs, and when I reach the second floor, I knock on the door.

“Coming.” Her voice sounds from inside. When the door opens, the smile beginning to bloom on her face freezes, and her pretty lips pop open. Then she snaps her mouth shut. “I’m sorry. I assumed you were Phillip.”

I incline my head and take her in. She’s fucking hard enough to resist in her silky blouses, hip-hugging skirts, and fitted dresses. But like this, in a T-shirt that clings to her breasts and black yoga pants that show off every curve? The sight of her has a rush of heat spreading through me. Yet despite how incredible her tight fucking body is, that’s not what has me entranced.

It’s her makeup-free skin. Smooth and luminous, it’s practically flawless except for the faint spray of freckles over her nose and the arches of her cheekbones. I fight the urge to reach for her, trace the delicate line of her jaw, and smooth mythumb over those tiny imperfections that are far too exquisite to deserve that label.

How would it feel to press my lips against that satin soft skin? To hear her breath shudder out of her? To kiss and lick and nip and suck until I’d explored every inch of her?

Hands clenched, I force that image out of my head. I’m here to help an employee in need. That’s all. I may not be known for personally attending to this type of errand, but there’s a first time for everything.

“We’re almost ready,” Chloe says, holding the door open for me. “Do you want to come in?”

“Thank you.” I step inside the small hallway, instantly catching sight of a large painting that momentarily distracts me from the far too desirable woman next to me.

It’s a hauntingly beautiful scene of Manhattan just before dawn. The streets that usually pulse with life are empty as pre-dawn light casts long shadows across the canvas, shading most of the city in hues of gray and pale blue—a world still asleep.

A light fog lingers at the lower levels of the buildings, softening the lines and angles I’m used to seeing in daylight. In the foreground of the painting, the Brooklyn Bridge stretches across the scene, its cables and arches sharply defined against the city behind. The sparse glow of headlights cutting through the misty dimness enhances the serenity and solitude emanating from the piece rather than diminishing it.

It’s unsettling yet captivating, seeing the city like this, empty, its soul laid bare. It easily could have evoked a sense of melancholy, except the artist has skillfully added a latent energy to the scene as well. The first brush of sunlight gilds the building tops, tracing their upper edges with hints of rose and gold. It conveys a subtle sense of anticipation, a final quiet exhalation before the city awakens to the potential of a new day.

The image plucks at a string tied too tightly within my chest, and I can’t put my finger on why. While I was raised to appreciate art, there are few pieces that have spoken to me the way this one does.

When I finally tear myself away from the canvas, I find Chloe watching me with curious eyes.

“Is this one of your father’s?”

The soft smile that lifts her lips tugs at the same string as the painting. “Yes, it’s my favorite.”

She doesn’t elaborate as to why, and I don’t ask. I’ve already wasted enough time when I should be helping her get her father to the doctor.

“I’ll get Dad, and then we can go,” she says.

Rather than wait for her at the door, I follow, driven by a need to find out more about her. More than can be gleaned from her personnel file anyway. The one I pulled and read after I told her she could keep her job.

The apartment is compact but neat and tidy. There’s a comfortable-looking chair positioned in front of the television, and on the two-seater couch beside it, a man sits stiffly.

With his graying blond hair and bluish-green eyes, it’s not hard to see where Chloe gets her coloring from. And despite the sweat on his brow and the tightness around his mouth giving away just how much pain he’s in, he manages to size me up in one long appraising look.

Chloe rushes to his side. “Dad, this is my boss, Roman King. Roman, this is my dad, Rick Callahan.”

Apparently deciding I pass muster, Rick nods. “Nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand and thank you for coming, but…” He glances down at his own hands, resting on his thighs, the wrists and knuckles visibly inflamed. “It’s like having iron rods at the end of my arms.” He lets out a rueful laugh.

“That’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m happy to help.”

Chloe snags her purse from the small kitchen and slips the strap over her shoulder, then brings back what looks like a cold pack and wraps it gently around one of her father’s wrists. “Are you ready?” she asks him softly.

Nodding, he slowly raises his arm. As she bends down and wraps one of hers around his back, it dawns on me that he needs help to stand, and I step forward, ready to assist. But Chloe gives me a little shake of her head.

I don’t like standing back and watching like this, especially when they both strain as she helps her dad to his feet, but I respect her wishes anyway.

Once they’re standing, she gives me a small smile. “Could you get the door?”

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