Page 58 of The Owner's Temptation

Earlier this week, I hand-delivered a custom engraved fountain pen to a man who saidthank youby staring at my chest for a full ten seconds. Lucian’s assistant asked me how things were going and I told her.

Lucian must has been told because the man’s contract was canceled the next day.

Today, I spent forty-five minutes hand-selecting new silk pocket squares for Lucian’s personal collection, all in his preferred shades of charcoal and black. Because apparently his assistant “folds them wrong,” and this was a task better suited for me.

I think my eyeballs almost detached from the force of my internal screaming.

Now, as I finally leave his office, I feel his presence behind me like a second shadow. His scent lingers in the air—a subtle blend of expensive cologne, leather, and something warm and masculine I can’t quite place. Like cedar and sin.

He never wears a tie. Never. Just crisp shirts that mold to his frame and leave the top button open like an invitation I’m not allowed to answer.

Today, that damn collar gaped just enough to show the edge of one tattoo. Black ink, curved and sharp against his tan skin. I’d spent the better part of an hour trying not to look at it. Not to wonder how far it went. Not to imagine tracing it with my fingers, my tongue.

His sleeves are always rolled up to his forearms, and every time his hand tightens into a fist—usually in response to somethingIdo—I catch the flex of his forearm muscles. The way his veins pop just slightly. The hint of another tattoo curling toward his elbow.

It’s torture.

And that’s not even the worst of it.

At the end of each day, he sits with me and tells me what I did well. Not kindly, not gently—but directly. Specifically. Thoughtfully.

Like he sees me.

And it’s pathetic, but Ilivefor those few minutes. The moment his eyes actually lock onto mine. When his voice drops, low and steady, as he delivers his verdict.

“Good instincts.”

“Well done today.”

“You’re learning.”

He probably doesn’t even realize it, but it lights something up inside me every time. A spark I try so hard to douse because I know better.

But today? I nearly short-circuited.

I caught myself watching his mouth as he sipped his espresso, completely tuned out to the rest of the world.

What would it feel like to have that mouth on mine?

Or elsewhere.

I shake the thought loose as I step into the elevator, pressing the button for the lobby with more force than necessary.

It’s not even frustration anymore—it’s desperation.

Lucian didn’t even look up when he released me. Just that quiet, firm,“You’re dismissed for the day.”Like I was one of his meetings. One of his checklists.

Like I didn’t just spend six hours playing statue.

With my earbuds in place, I pull out my phone and dial the one person who’ll understand exactly how maddening this is.

“Tell me you’ve either stabbed him or kissed him,” Harper answers on the first ring, no greeting required.

“I’ve done neither,” I mutter.

I shift my bag to the other shoulder as I dodge around a stalled food cart. “I swear to God, Harper, if I have to run one more errand that involves dry cleaning, espresso orders, or picking up cufflinks from some boutique I can’t even afford to breathe in?—”

Harper’s laugh rings through the speaker. “Oh no. Not the sacred cufflinks. How dare he.”

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