The Billionaire Waitress
Could this really work, or was I setting myself up to get fucked over?
The penthouse door opened, and there he was, framed in the soft glow of the hallway light. Justin’s hazel eyes burned, warm like whiskey under autumn leaves, his dark hair tousled like he’d been running his hands through it, nervous as hell. He wore a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, showing off forearms that screamed early morning gym sessions and late-night fantasies. Dark jeans hugged his lean frame, casual but deliberate, making my thighs clench. “Kayla,” he said, his smile soft, almost boyish, “you came.”
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