Page 8 of Daddy's Naughty Realtor

His smile is slow and knowing. "Of course. I've made reservations at Lumière for seven. I'll send a car for you."

Lumière.

Only the most exclusive restaurant in the city, with a three-month waiting list and a chef who's rumored to have turned away celebrities because they didn't meet his standards.

"I can drive myself," I say, standing.

"Always so independent." Jeremy stands too, moving around the desk again. "Some things never change. You know, it’s okay to not be independent all the time…" He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair back from my face, his fingers lingering against my cheek. It's barely a touch, yet it burns like a brand.

"Until tonight, kitten," he murmurs.

I should object to the pet name. I should step back. I should maintain professional boundaries.

Instead, I find myself nodding, my voice embarrassingly breathless when I say, "Until tonight."

As I walk out of his office, I can feel his eyes on me, and I know—with absolute certainty—that I'm in dangerous territory. Because despite everything, despite years of anger and hurt, despite my best intentions…

I'm looking forward to tonight.

And, to my absolute horror, I like it when he calls me kitten.

CHAPTER5

Three days after our dinner at Lumière, a massive arrangement arrives at my office, white roses with a single red in the middle. My assistant brings them in with raised eyebrows and a knowing smile that I choose to ignore.

"Special client?" she asks, setting the vase on my desk.

"Something like that," I mutter, already reaching for the card nestled among the blooms.

Looking forward to our next negotiation. ~ J

Simple. Professional-adjacent. Completely innocent to anyone else reading it. So why does my pulse kick up like I've just sprinted up ten flights of stairs?

I tuck the card into my desk drawer before my assistant can get nosy, but it's too late to hide my reaction. My face feels warm, and I'm smiling despite my best efforts not to.

"Must be some client," she says with a smirk before ducking back out to her desk.

I pick up my phone to send a polite but distant thank-you text, something that maintains appropriate boundaries while acknowledging the gesture. What I absolutely should not do is engage in any way that could be construed as personal or flirtatious.

Me: The flowers are beautiful. Thank you. But unnecessary.

Professional. Reserved. Perfect. His response comes seconds later.

Jeremy: You're welcome, kitten. And they're entirely necessary. I wanted you thinking of me today.

Kitten.

That word again, slipping under my skin like a caress. No one has called me by a pet name in years, and certainly not one that makes heat pool low in my belly.

Me: We have a business relationship, Mr. Ford, I text back, clinging to formality like a life raft.

Jeremy: Is that what we have, Gina? Because I remember something very different happening on the restaurant terrace the other night.

My cheeks flame. Nothing happened on the terrace. Not really. Just a moment where he'd stood too close, his hand brushing a strand of hair from my face, his voice dropping to that register that made my insides turn liquid as he'd murmured, "You're playing a dangerous game, kitten."

I'd pulled back then, made my excuses, left before I could do something stupid like tilt my face up for a kiss. But the moment has haunted me ever since.

Me: Going out there with you was a momentary lapse in judgment.

---