The Shirtless Hazard

The small, fourth-floor apartment above Sparks Design Studio smelled faintly of fresh lavender, drying oil paint, and the stale filter coffee Juliet had brewed at five o’clock that morning.

It was a cozy, slightly cluttered space filled with plush oversized throw pillows, rolls of sketch paper, half-finished fabric samples, and quirky vintage trinkets Juliet had rescued from flea markets over the years. It was warm, lived-in, and unmistakably her.

And right now, it felt impossibly, suffocatingly tiny.

The heavy oak front door swung shut with a metallic click, locking them inside. Roman stepped into the narrow entryway, carrying a single, battered leather duffel bag slung over his broad shoulder.

Juliet stood in the middle of her open-concept kitchen, leaning against the butcher-block island while holding a ceramic mug of water. Her eyes darted from the modest leather bag in his hand up to his face.

"Is that... all you brought?" she asked, her eyebrows pulling together in concern. "Your duffel bag looks like it barely holds three days' worth of clothes, Roman. Did you leave the rest of your things at your old place?"

Roman set the duffel bag down by the base of her coat rack. The bag, in truth, was an understated Italian calfskin piece worth three thousand dollars, but to Juliet’s untrained eye, it was just a plain, weathered duffel bag.

"I pack light, Miss Sparks," Roman said, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to bounce off the modest plaster walls of her living room. "When you work executive shifts on call for a corporation like Bloom Enterprises, you learn to live out of a bag."

"Right. Corporate driver hours," Juliet said, nodding with deep, sympathetic understanding. She set her water mug down on the counter and began frantically shuffling through a stack of loose mail and fabric swatches, trying to give her restless hands something to do. "Well, as I said at the registry office, this is a strict twelve-month arrangement. My apartment has two rooms: my bedroom, and the small study down the hall where I keep my drafting board. I’ve cleared out the daybed in the study for you. It’s... a little short, but the mattress is memory foam!"

"I'm sure it will be more than adequate," Roman replied smoothly.

He unbuttoned the cuffs of his bespoke charcoal suit jacket, slipped the jacket off his arms, and draped it carefully over the back of one of her wooden kitchen chairs.

Juliet watched him out of the corner of her eye, her heart executing a nervous little flip against her ribs. He really is ridiculously tall, she thought, her eyes tracking the sheer width of his shoulders under his crisp white dress shirt. My apartment ceiling suddenly feels three feet lower.

"It’s pretty warm in here," Roman noted casually, reaching up to untie his dark silk tie. He pulled the length of silk free, draping it over his jacket, and began unbuttoning the front of his dress shirt from the neck down. "Do you mind if I change into something lighter?"

"Oh! No, of course not," Juliet said, waving her hand dismissively as she turned back to her kitchen counter, picking up a pen. "Go right ahead. The bathroom is down the hall on the left, or you can use the guest—"

She turned around to point toward the hallway, the words tumbling effortlessly off her lips—until every single syllable died a violent death in her throat.

Roman hadn't walked down the hallway to the bathroom.

Instead, standing right there under the warm, amber glow of her kitchen pendant light, he had shrugged his dress shirt off his shoulders.

Juliet’s breath caught so sharply it felt like a physical blow to her chest. Her hazel eyes widened, freezing in place as her brain completely, utterly short-circuited.

Roman’s back was turned to her for a fraction of a second as he pulled his arms from his sleeves. It was a broad, golden-bronze expanse of pure, dense muscle, tapering down into a dangerously sharp, narrow V-line at the waist of his trousers. The warm light caught the deep contours of his spine, accentuating the thick, powerful muscles of his upper back—muscles that flexed and rippled with the effortless grace of an apex predator simply stretching its limbs.

And then, he turned around.

Juliet’s hand tightened around the kitchen counter until her knuckles turned ghostly white. Her mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.

Dear God in heaven... her mind screamed into the terrifying, breathless void of her own skull. What in the world do they make drivers do at Bloom Enterprises?!

His chest was broad, deep, and sculpted like a piece of polished bronze marble. Dark, fine hair lightly dusted the center of his chest, trailing down in a tantalizing line straight over a set of razor-sharp, perfectly symmetrical six-pack abs. Every single muscle group on his torso looked as though it had been carved by a master sculptor who specialized exclusively in lethal male beauty. His obliques were slashed so deep into his hips that the waistband of his dress trousers rode low, teasing the sharp cut of his hipbones.

Is lifting heavy steering wheels a full-time, iron-pumping workout?! Juliet internally lost her mind, her pulse hammering in her ears like a war drum. How is an 'executive driver' built like a god who belongs on a global billboard in Times Square?! I hired an assistant, not a walking, breathing lethal weapon in slacks!

A scorching wave of heat rushed up her neck, flooding her cheeks with a fierce, burning crimson. Her mind betrayed her instantly, flashing back to the hazy, dark hotel room from that morning—broad, calloused hands gripping her waist... this exact heavy, muscular chest pinning her into the mattress... the feeling of her fingernails digging straight into those broad shoulders...

Juliet swallowed hard, her throat painfully dry. She bit her lower lip, desperately trying to drag her gaze upward to force eye contact with his face.

She failed miserably.

Her eyes, operating on pure, primal instinct, darted right back down to the razor-sharp cut of his abdominal muscles, tracing the subtle, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

Roman stood perfectly still, holding a folded, plain black cotton t-shirt in his left hand.

He didn't put the shirt on immediately. Instead, he watched her.

His dark, piercing eyes tracked the wild flush staining her cheeks, the way her hazel eyes burned as they scanned his bare skin, and the small, telltale tremor in her lower lip as she bit down on it. A slow, knowing, and dangerously lethal smirk began to spread across his handsome face.

"Like what you see, wife?" Roman asked softly, his voice dropping into a low, velvety purr that sent a violent shiver shooting straight down Juliet’s spine.

The sound of his voice snapped the hypnotic spell breaking over her.

Juliet flinched, her eyes flying up to meet his dark, mocking gaze. The smirk on his face was pure, unadulterated trouble.

"I—what?! No! I mean—yes! I mean—" Juliet stammered frantically, her voice pitching up an octave as her face burned hotter than a furnace. She cleared her throat violently, grabbing her mug of water and taking a sudden, aggressive gulp, nearly choking on it in her panic.

She slammed the mug back down on the butcher block, pointing an accusing finger at his bare chest. "You can't just... unbutton your entire shirt in the middle of my kitchen, Roman! Have you no concept of personal boundaries?!"

"I asked if you minded," Roman pointed out smoothly, his smirk deepening as he leisurely unfolded the black t-shirt. "You said 'go right ahead.'"

"I assumed you were going to walk into the guest room or the bathroom like a normal human being!" Juliet hissed, her cheeks practically radiating heat. She covered her eyes with her palm, turning her body forty-five degrees away from him. "Put a shirt on! Put a shirt on right now before my brain melts through my ears!"

Roman let out a low, rumbling chuckle—a sound so deep and rich it resonated right in the center of Juliet's chest. With an agonizingly slow, fluid movement, he pulled the black cotton t-shirt over his head, pulling his arms through the sleeves. The thin black fabric stretched taut across his massive chest and shoulders, molding to his physique in a way that frankly didn't help Juliet’s mental stability whatsoever.

"Shirt is on, Miss Sparks," Roman announced, crossing his arms over his chest. "You can look now."

Juliet cautiously peeked out from between her fingers. Seeing him fully covered—though still infuriatingly attractive in a simple plain black tee—she lowered her hand, taking a deep, steadying breath to regain her composure.

"Right. Good," she muttered, adjusting her blazer and smoothing down her skirt with aggressive efficiency. "Now. Down to business."

She marched over to her purse sitting on the sofa, unzipping it and pulling out her leather wallet. She flipped it open, pulling out two hundred-dollar bills. She marched right back up to Roman, thrusting the cash directly against his broad chest.

Roman looked down at the two green bills pressed against his shirt, then raised an eyebrow at her. "What is this?"

"That is two hundred dollars," Juliet declared firmly, taking a half-step back so she didn't have to tilt her neck so far up to look him in the eye. "You are living under my roof now. As your legal contract wife, I am not going to let my executive driver husband starve, nor am I going to let you live on cheap instant noodles."

Roman stared at the cash, thoroughly bewildered. "Juliet, I don't need—"

"Take it, Roman!" Juliet insisted, grabbing his large, calloused hand and forcibly folding his long fingers over the crisp bills. "There is a 24-hour gourmet grocery market two blocks down the street. I want you to take this money, go down there, and buy us real food. Get some fresh vegetables, some protein, eggs, coffee, and whatever else you like. And while you're out..."

She pointed a stern finger at his nose. "...buy yourself a proper set of casual shirts so you don't have to walk around my apartment semi-naked!"

Roman looked down at his hand. Held tightly within his broad palm were two crisp hundred-dollar bills—her hard-earned money, offered with fierce, unapologetic care.

In his back pocket rested his ultra-custom, solid-titanium Black Card—an unmapped line of credit with zero spending limit, capable of purchasing the entire grocery chain, the building they were currently standing in, and the entire street block outside without batting an eye.

Yet, as he looked at the fiery, stubborn woman standing before him—her hazel eyes blazing with protective determination, her cheeks still flushed from staring at his bare chest—something strangely warm stirred deep within his chest.

Roman slowly tucked the two hundred dollars into the front pocket of his dark trousers, right alongside his titanium card.

"Groceries and shirts. Understood," Roman said softly, a genuine, rare warmth softening the sharp edges of his dark eyes. "Is there anything specific you want from the market, Mrs. Bloom?"

Juliet swallowed hard at the title, her pulse giving another traitorous leap, but she stood her ground, puffing out her chest.

"Just get good coffee," she instructed, turning back toward her drafting desk in the corner. "And hurry back. I have to finish these design sketches for the Sparks Studio portfolio review before midnight, or my stepmother’s legal team will find another loophole to exploit."

"They won't find a thing," Roman said, his voice dropping into that quiet, absolute authority that made it sound like an ironclad guarantee from the universe itself.

Juliet glanced over her shoulder, but Roman was already smoothly slipping his shoes back on near the front door. He grabbed his keys from the counter, gave her one last, lingering look that made her heart skip a beat, and stepped out into the hallway, pulling the heavy door shut behind him.

The moment the lock clicked, Juliet collapsed backward onto her soft sofa, throwing her hands over her face with a dramatic groan.

"Dear God," she whimpered into her palms, her body still buzzing with nervous, electric energy. "Twelve months. I have to live with a six-foot-four Greek god in sweatpants for twelve whole months without jumping his bones. I'm not going to survive this marriage."

Down in the quiet, tree-lined alley behind the apartment building, a sleek, blacked-out luxury Maybach pulled up silently to the curb.

The rear door opened, and Mark—Roman's personal secretary—stepped out frantically, clutching an encrypted tablet to his chest. He rushed over to Roman, who was standing under the warm glow of a streetlamp, casually leaning against the brick wall.

"Sir!" Mark breathed out, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I have the emergency corporate filings ready for your digital signature! The board of directors has accepted the marriage certificate, but your uncle is demanding proof of cohabitation within forty-eight hours! Also, the financial team needs approval for the acquisition of—"

Mark stopped mid-sentence. His eyes drifted down to Roman’s hand.

The multi-billionaire CEO of Bloom Enterprises was carefully holding two crisp, folded one-hundred-dollar bills, turning them over between his long fingers with a look of profound, contemplative amusement.

"Sir?" Mark asked, blinking in total confusion. "What... what is that?"

Roman slid the two hundred dollars into his inner jacket pocket, patting it gently as if it were the most valuable asset in his multi-billion-dollar portfolio.

"This, Mark," Roman said, a slow, dangerous, and thoroughly captivated smile spreading across his face as he looked up at the dimly lit window on the fourth floor, "is my grocery allowance."

Mark blinked, his jaw dropping open. "Your... your what?"

"My wife thinks I'm an underpaid, struggling executive driver for Bloom Enterprises," Roman explained smoothly, stepping past his stunned secretary toward the luxury Maybach. "And she just gave me two hundred dollars so I wouldn't starve."

"Sir, should I... should I inform her of your actual net worth?" Mark squeaked, chasing after him. "Or transfer fifty million dollars into an anonymous account for her studio?!"

"Touch her account, and I'll have you reassigned to our logistics outpost in the Arctic," Roman warned coldly, though the dark glint in his eyes remained entirely warm. "Order our private security team to discreetly patrol this entire block twenty-four hours a day. If Karen, Adam, or anyone from the Sparks family comes within a hundred yards of this building..."

Roman paused, sliding into the plush leather back seat of the Maybach.

"...make sure they regret the day they were born. Now drive me to the high-end organic market down the street. I have groceries to buy for my wife."