Page 30 of Winning Brynn

Alex:Do you think that's reassuring?

Alex:You put your hands on my little sister while she was unconscious and couldn't consent.

Leo:I think that's a reach.

Alex:*mentally processing*

Leo:I was only trying to help, and you're making me out to be a pervert.

Alex:You're making yourself out that way.

Leo:You need therapy.

Alex:Go and sit with her, if you must. But please, for the love of God, keep your fucking hands to yourself.

Leo:Aye, aye, captain.

Alex:I'll know if you touch her, and the consequences won't be pretty.

Leo:There's a great therapist down in Bellevue. I'll forward you her number in the morning.

Chapter Ten

Brynn

Passing by the consoletable littered with framed photographs of wide baby smiles and Leo kicking balls, I shuffle my bare feet down the hallway and pull my robe tighter around my body, led by the scent of hot food.

January is approaching its end, the bitter winter air slipping into the apartment even through the several layers of glazing on the windows. I've never done well with the cold. It seeps into my bones and lingers there from the beginning of fall until spring finally lifts back into summer.

That said, aside from the pure silk robe hanging around my shoulders that I was gifted from La Perla last month, I'm only wearing a thin tank and pink striped satin shorts. Leo can turn the heat up. God knows the man makes enough money not to worry about his energy bill.

A week has passed since I started this nanny gig, and I still find Leo’s apartment to be disconcertingly homey, despite the needless chill in the air this morning. Disconcerting, because I can’t seem to marry the cantankerous personality of the man with the warmth of his home. I also can’t marry the man I thought I knew with the one who held me through my nightmare, but I’m trying not to think about that right now.

When I turn into the kitchen, my feet squeak to a stop on the tumbled limestone tiles.

At the island, Leo scrambles eggs in a pan on the stove. He stirs with one hand, sipping from a cup of steaming coffee with the other. It wouldn't be a particularly shocking sight if it wasn't for the fact that he's wearing nothing but loose gray sweatpants and a backward baseball cap.

God help me, my mouth waters.

His chest is sculpted to a divine degree, his abs flexing with every movement. Those ridges—all fucking eight of them—are cut like someone sculpted him from marble. And under them, a sharp V points down to whatever he's hiding underneath his sweats.

My libido lifts a fist and curses the counter for interrupting our line of sight. The harlot is desperate to see the outline of his dick through the thin material—so much so she's salivating. Though, frankly, it's probably better for my sanity that we can't. The last thing I need right now is to know the exact number of inches Leo Sullivan is packing down there.

When I woke from my nightmare the other night and found myself in his lap, with his arms around me and that gloriously naked chest directly in my line of sight, I swear, I nearly passed out. And that was when I couldn't see the cords in his arms, and the veins in his hands, and the very slight peek of dark hair beneath the waistband of his sweats that I have a completely unobstructed view of now.

Honestly, I think I'm panting.

Pulling out a stool at the island in front of him, I look at him pointedly. "You look like a slut."

His gaze flies to mine, shock and amusement glittering in his dark eyes. "Excuse me?"

"Where are your clothes?" I gesture at his nakedness, my face a mask of apathy despite how flustered I am.

He snorts. "That's rich coming from you."

Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean forward on the counter with narrowed eyes. "I don't know what you mean."

"You don't seem to know what a bra is either."

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