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I stared at the contract on my desk like it was a live grenade.

Three months. That's all I had left before my lease at the gallery expired, and Marcus Chen—my landlord, my nemesis, and unfortunately the most attractive man I'd ever had the misfortune of despising—knew it.

The new terms sat there in crisp black ink: a forty percent rent increase. Effective immediately.

They didn't. If anything, they seemed to mock me more with each pass. Forty percent. The words blurred as anger heated my cheeks.

My gallery—Sofia Reyes Fine Arts—had taken five years to build. Five years of living off ramen and rejected credit card applications.

Five years of sweet-talking artists and charming collectors.

Five years of pouring every ounce of myself into transforming a rundown warehouse space into something beautiful.

And now Marcus Chen, with his perfectly tailored suits and his obscene wealth and his infuriating smirk, was about to price me out.

"Absolutely not," I muttered, grabbing my phone. My finger hovered over his contact for half a second before I pressed call. Professional. I needed to stay professional, even though what I really wanted was to march into his office and throw the contract at his stupidly handsome face.

He answered on the second ring.

"You can't be serious, Marcus. Forty percent? That's predatory."

"It's market rate. The neighborhood's changed. Your little art gallery sits on prime real estate now." He paused, and I could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "Of course, if you'd like to discuss alternative arrangements, my office is open."

"Alternative arrangements," I repeated flatly. My free hand curled into a fist on the desk.

The line went dead before I could tell him exactly where he could shove his alternative arrangements.

Marcus Chen had been a thorn in my side since the day I signed my first lease. He was only thirty-two—just five years older than me—but he carried himself like some kind of corporate emperor. Old money, new money, it didn't matter. He had enough of both to buy and sell me a hundred times over.

And he knew it.

Every interaction we'd had over the past two years had been the same. Him, impeccably dressed and infuriatingly calm. Me, trying desperately not to show how much he got under my skin.

Our lease meetings were exercises in restraint. His "courtesy inspections" were thinly veiled excuses to remind me who owned the building.

I hated him.

Or at least, I told myself I did.

That when he leaned close to point out a clause in the contract, I noticed the way his cologne smelled like cedar and something darker, more expensive. That I'd caught myself staring at his hands more than once, wondering what they'd feel like—

No. Stop.

I shook my head sharply, as if that would dislodge the thought. Marcus Chen was my landlord. My professional adversary. Nothing more.

Tomorrow, I'd go to his office. I'd negotiate like the businesswoman I was.

And I absolutely, definitely would not think about the way his suits fit across his shoulders, or the hint of ink I'd once glimpsed at his wrist when his cuff slipped, or the fact that his voice did very inappropriate things to my pulse.

Absolutely not.