4

“Right, well, I think we’re done with this one,” she said, unceremoniously shoving the shower screen in his face and almost sending him to his ass on the pink porcelain. “Shall we move on?” she said, already heading out.

“Yup.” Isabella nodded, smirking right at him.

He screwed his face up in a childish gesture. Whatever. 

“If you both go on down,” Olivia said, expertly ignoring their little exchange—thank fuck! The pair of them were doing his ego and renowned charm no favours at all.

“I’ll join you shortly,” she continued. “I just have to take care of an errand for the owner.”

“Great,” Isabella said, moving for the front door. “I have a quick call to make so I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“I’ll catch you up,” he called after her, pushing the glass door back into place and wondering why the hell he hadn’t thought of that.

Perhaps because you haven't been thinking straight since you saw her? He shook his head, brushing the entire incident off as he followed in Olivia's direction.

“Can I have a quick word?” he asked, entering the kitchenette hot on her tail. His intention had been to talk budget with Isabella out of earshot but as Olivia turned in the small space, hemmed in as they were by the cupboards and the breakfast bar, all thoughts of conversation evaporated.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes wary as they lifted to his, her hands coming to rest on the countertop either side of her as she backed up against it. “But first you need to stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

 He knew the answer well enough, but how would she describe it, what she saw in him? She was good with words—she’d demonstrated it repeatedly throughout the day, when eloquently describing the features of each potential abode. And in truth, he could listen to her talk and talk and talk. Perhaps that was why he was so keen to criticise: he wasn’t ready for her job to come to an end; he wasn’t ready for her to complete a sale for his sister and vacate his life.

He watched her eyelids flutter, her tongue flicking out to moisten that bottom lip he was so fascinated with. Was she nervous? Was it because of him? 

“You know what.” Her eyes dropped to his mouth, their depths revealing in their helpless nature, and his lips curled upwards. So she wasn’t as unaffected by him as she’d have him believe. Good to know. 

Power surged, his ego with it. “What if I said I can’t help it?”

 Her eyes snapped back to his. “Then make yourself help it because this —” she wagged a finger between them “—isn’t happening.”

“No?” He stepped forward and her eyes widened, her lips parting on a ragged breath.

“No.” She gave a small shake of her head, the move sending a lock across her forehead and he itched to push it back. “I don’t date clients.”

“Technically,” he said, his voice gruff even to his own ears, “I’m not a client.”

“You’re as good as.”

“I disagree.”

“Whether you disagree or not, I don’t care,” she rushed out. “I’m not falling into this trap.”

His brow knitted together; she’d flummoxed him now. “Trap?” he repeated. 

She paled, her words seeming to surprise even her, and then she visibly recovered, her chin rising, to say, “The kind of trap where I let this get in the way of my business.”

 He studied her face, her sincerity. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.” He didn’t like the idea one bit. Oh, the irony. “I take it you’ve not always been so averse to dating clients?”

 She hesitated, her teeth worrying over her lower lip and teasing at his concentration. Was she going to evade giving him an answer? Or should he just kiss her and be done with the whole conversation? He was veering towards the latter when she spoke.

“Not my clients, no, my ex-business partner…we…we were together.” She dragged in a breath and straightened, her focus coming back, 

“It was a long time ago… And hence why this just isn’t happening.”

He faltered, his brain telling him to agree, to move past the pull that was driving him to distraction. She’s so not your type. She seems like a bag of emotion. She’s not safe in your hands.

Instead he found himself saying, “You’re overthinking it. As much as Izzy loves me, she clearly loves you too. She's your friend and already bought into your skills as an estate agent, as have I, for that matter. Nothing between us will sway her to go elsewhere.”

 You idiot, why pursue her? She doesn’t fit with your no-strings rule. This woman goes in for attachment. Worse still, she’s been burned by it already and probably still suffering. 

But then, if that’s the case, maybe she’s ready for the no-strings alternative. Maybe she’s ready to become your type.

“You have my word,” he pressed gently.

You bastard.

___________

Olivia lifted her eyes at his soft declaration and immediately regretted it.

He hovered just above her, his wolf-like gaze burning into her own, the rush of warmth it inspired sending her toes curling inside her Louboutins. She held his eye; was he for real? “Your word?”

He made an affirmative noise deep in his throat, almost enticing a reciprocal one from her as it strummed at the heat swelling down low.

“I’m willing to bet you’re just as caught up in this attraction as me,” he said huskily. “And if that’s the case, you’ll realise this is about a bit of fun; no harm, no foul, no jeopardised business arrangement.”

“You reckon?” She sounded breathless, out of control.

No, no, don’t let this happen. He nodded and raised his hand, her breath catching as she anticipated his touch, wanting and dreading it all the same, knowing that it was wrong and when it came she would lose herself in it, in him. So why the hell wasn't she discouraging him more and moving away? What was happening to her? 

“I’m not very good at…fun.” She threw his description back at him, desperately clinging to what she knew to be true even as the heat of his hand brushed beneath her jaw, his touch so light it was barely there. And she wanted it there. Wanted every one of those fingers pressed into her skin as he kissed her.