Page 27 of Selfish Suit

Sometime around 3 a.m.

I’m standing under ice-cold streams for the third time tonight.

This time, when I step out, I won’t let a single thought of Ivy cross my mind. I’ll get over the fact that I let the sexiest woman in Manhattan stay in my condo temporarily, and I’ll get at least an hour of sleep.

I’ve handled harder obstacles. I can handle this one.

With my plan resolved, I turn off the water and step onto the floor.

I wrap a towel around my waist and head into the kitchen.

Fuck.

Ivy is standing on her tiptoes, reaching for something in a high cabinet.

Wearing only a T-shirt and socks, she undoes my resolve in five seconds flat.

I tell myself I’ve handled worse. That this is nothing.

But watching her like this—bare legs, messy hair, one hand bracing the counter—says otherwise.

“May I help you with something?” I ask.

She freezes, then glances over her shoulder.

“I was just looking for the hazelnut syrup,” she says. “For my coffee.”

I walk over and open a different cabinet, pulling out the bottle.

“Anything else?”

“For you to put some clothes on while I’m out here working.”

I don’t give her the satisfaction of a reply. Just turn and walk.

I head back to the master suite, step under another cold stream, and already know what I’m doing in the morning.

Tracey’s going to have to make Ivy’s apartment search move at the speed of light. Two weeks, max.

She’s not staying here longer than that.

THE INTERN

IVY

At the edge of sunrise, Dominic’s condo stirs to life like a symphony. The drapes slowly rise to reveal a still-sleeping New York, soft piano music filters through the ceiling speakers, and bright lights twinkle against the baseboards. The early performance ruins my chances of getting any hint of sleep before work.

Every time I’ve tried to shut my eyes, all I could see was Dominic walking into my suite and climbing on top of me. Him taking full control of my body and never letting go, no matter how loud I screamed.

And I didn’t hate any of the visions; I didn’t stop them, either.

I make sure I have all my folders for work, and as I’m walking to the kitchen, a man dressed in all gray walks through the front door.

“Good morning, Miss Locke,” he says, slightly bowing. “I’m Chef Peters. Would you like anything in particular for breakfast today?”

“No, whatever you make is fine.”

He smiles and slips into the kitchen, and the door swings open again—this time with two men.

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