Page 79 of Guarded King

This is a side of Chloe I would never have known if Jasmine hadn’t pointed it out. It’s intoxicating, the sight of her, and it kills me to realize that a woman who only met her in passing found out more about her in an hour than I have in the three months she’s worked for me. Because I didn’t think to ask. Because I didn’t want to know.

Didn’t want to let myself care.

Except, somehow, I do anyway. I want to know what she thinks and how she feels. What makes her laugh and what brings her to tears. I want to understand her passion, her struggles—every piece of her.

But I can’t have those things. And once we’re back in New York, I won’t have this either.

All I have is right now.

Quietly, I step up beside her. She’s so absorbed in the painting that she doesn’t notice me.

“I’ve heard these things are better experienced with someone else.”

Hand pressed to her chest, she whips toward me. “Roman!” She shakes her head. “What are you doing here? Was your meeting canceled?”

“Something like that.” Before she can probe further, I nod at the painting in front of us. “What do you think?”

Frowning, she studies me, but after a moment, she turns back to the painting, as if she’s accepted that I won’t give her more of an explanation. “It’s incredible. I can’t imagine having the skill to paint something this big and detailed.”

I take in the artwork. It’s the largest in the Louvre’s collection and depicts the biblical story of the Marriage at Cana, where Jesus turned water into wine. It’s an elaborate scene, with an intricate play of light and color that brings the lavish feast to life.

“The colors are still so vibrant.” Echoing my thoughts, Chloe gestures at the dark blue of the room’s wall. “I read that they chose the midnight blue because it contrasts with the specific palette the Venetian Masters tended to use.” She points at parts of the scene. “Reds, yellows, oranges, greens. The room itself contributes to the artwork. It’s incredible.”

Her smile is like sunshine, the warmth sinking into me and flaring hot behind my ribs. I have to curl my hands into fists in an effort to stop myself from touching her. To see how far and fast that heat would spread if I had her satin skin under my hands.

“I didn’t know you wanted to be an artist,” I say to distract myself.

She turns to me, brows drawn together. “Why would you?”

She’s right, I’m her boss, not her friend. Even so, it feels wrong that I didn’t. I want to know—needto know—more about her. “What happened?”

She cocks her head, forehead furrowed, as if my question is strange. “Lifehappened.”

When did she give up on that dream? Was it when her father got sick? Or was it before that? Indulging in my curiosity isn’t helpful, not when every detail I discover only makes me want to know more, but it’s becoming a compulsion.

With a hand at her back, I turn her away from the painting, then usher her toward the other masterpieces housed in the huge room, stopping to take each one in.

She reads each plaque, sharing interesting tidbits of information with me. I already know many of the facts, but I listen attentively anyway. It’s hard not to, when her enthusiasm is so infectious.

As we move through the exhibit, I intersperse comments about what we’re looking at with questions about her. I discover that she never attended art school or took art classes in college. That most of what she knows about the theory of art she learned from the books she read as a child, and from her dad.

The sadness that clouds her expression when she talks about him slices through me. Her voice is steady as she shares how hard it’s been for her to witness the progression of her dad’s disease, how having his art stripped slowly but surely away was almost as painful for him as the inflammation in his joints.

When she once again mentions her hope that he’ll soon paint as well as he used to, a smile lights up her face.

And my damn chest lights up right along with it.

Which is a big fucking problem.

Because though I’ve tried so damn hard to deny it, what I’m feeling is more than just physical attraction. If that’s all it was, then I’d have no trouble maintaining control around her.

My attraction runs so much deeper. How can it not? She might look delicate, but she’s one of the strongest people I’veever met. And she pours that strength into taking care of the people she loves without hesitation or complaint.

Knowing how much younger than me she is should make a difference. It should be enough to keep me in check. But it’s not. Not anymore. That mix of strength and vulnerability, the warmth she possesses, the kind of maturity that goes way beyond her years—it’s impossible to see her as anything less than a woman in every sense of the word. And no matter how hard I fight it, I can’t stop wanting her.

But there are stilllines I refuse to cross. Because no matter how much I admire her or how deeply I’m drawn to her, she’s still my beautiful, young employee. And that means she’s off limits.

Even if I can’t keep my eyes off her as I follow her around the room.

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