Page 1 of Finding Lord Landry

ONE

KENJI

“Do you have any soup?” Landry demanded. “I’m starving, but I shouldn’t have solids until after tomorrow’s shoot.”

“No. But there’s a ramen place on the corner. You should go there,” I said, emphasizing the wordgoso there was no confusion.

Landry ignored me, stretching his long, lean body on my bed. “What about lemon? Why don’t you ever have fresh lemons when you know I need lemon in my water to chug down as much as I have to drink.”

I tried my hardest not to look at the miles of bare skin on offer. He was preening. The man didn’t know how to be any other way than arrogant about his body, but then again, if I’d had a body like that—one people paid millions to display their clothing on—I might preen, too. Unfortunately, on Landry, the preening was not only insufferable but also irresistible.

Not that I’d ever admit that out loud. To anyone. Even on pain of death.

“I’m not your valet…” My words trailed off because while I wasn’t his valet, technically, I was his executive assistant. And an argument could be made—for other people, not Landry—that an executive assistant should, in fact, consider supplying the things a man needed for his job.

He turned onto his side and propped his head on his hand. His long, blond hair was enticingly tangled, as if the man had just had the hungry fingers of a lover in it.

I cleared my throat. “You need to leave.”

He kicked off the sheet and ran his fingers down his thigh and back up theinsideof his thigh while giving me a familiar look.

I pressed the button on my mindfulness app and asked, “What does Chaska Inira say about staying calm when provoked?”

“When emotions rise like stormy seas, seek the still waters beneath. A provocation is but a test—a mirror reflecting the mastery of your own peace. Do not wrestle with the storm; instead, anchor yourself in understanding and let the tempest pass.”

Chaska’s melodious voice soothed me as I finished folding my pajama pants and placed them into the suitcase. Even though I’d had the Louis Vuitton bag for over two years now, I still treated it like a spoiled princess. Who paid this much for a Rollaboard? No one rational, that was who. People with more money than sense.

“Told you you’d like it,” Landry said knowingly, nodding toward the suitcase.

“And I told you I didn’t want Louis Vuitton. I wanted a Samsonite just like the one you ruined,” I muttered. I wasn’t lying, per se. It was true that I had wanted a simple replacement for my old, trusty carry-on. But when he’d given me this one anyway… well, I hadn’t cried about it.

Landry sat up and peered into the suitcase. “Did you iron those? Who the fuck irons pajama pants? Wait. Is that a cummerbund? And what kind of retreat is this? I thought you were staying in a yurt with yaks and ringing metal bowls or something.”

I ignored Landry’s voice and tried to focus on the one in my head that was actively counseling me against murder.

I was still waters, and Landry was the damned tempest.

“I don’t see why you have to go halfway around the world to listen to more of that ‘live, laugh, love’ nonsense. You should stay here,” Landry continued. He reached into the suitcase for my bow tie, but I slapped his hand before flicking it away.

“Sex is over. Our time together has come to a not-regrettable end,” I informed him.

He settled back onto the pillows and put his hands behind his head. This had the—probably intended—effect of popping out his defined biceps. I bit back a sigh. While I didn’t necessarily like the man himself most days, Landry was fucking incredible in bed. His body was a very fine specimen, and he was particularly talented with his tongue.

I’d also discovered a few years ago, when we’d made the unfortunate decision to hook up “just this once,” that Landry Davis happened to be the world’s most generous lover.

I wasn’t sure what Chaska would say about fate taking a glorious talent like Landry’s and wrapping it in an immature, self-absorbed package, but I doubted the answer would help me find lasting peace. Dwelling on Landry never did.

As if he could hear my thoughts, the man in question ran his hand down his chest to his cock, which was still flaccid against his thigh after he’d orgasmed while balls-deep inside of me.

I cleared my throat. “I’m flying to San Cordova in six hours. I will be gone for four weeks. And to answer your question, it’s a mindfulness retreat at a luxury island resort… as I’ve already told you.”

Not that he’d listened. Not that he’d actually heard me or cared.

His face widened into a knowing grin. “Ha! You can’t give up your Apple Watch and charging station. Or your daily lattes. Admit it. You had to pick a retreat with amenities.”

I shot him a look while pressing the button on my app again. “What does Chaska say about self-care?”

“To nurture yourself is not selfish; it is sacred. Your body, mind, and spirit are vessels for your journey, and they must be tended with care. Just as the sun does not apologize for shining or the river for flowing, you must not hesitate to honor your needs. Rest when you are weary, nourish yourself with kindness, and seek joy without guilt. Only when your own cup is full can you truly pour into the lives of others.”

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