Oh, god.
Why can’t I seem to get rid of this man?
One look at his face, at the way his jaw tightens, tells me he’s just as blindsided as I am.
He's in a casual black t-shirt that stretches over his chest, paired with dark jeans that cling just enough to show he works out religiously. He’s not supposed to look this good. Not outside of his office. Here, with that damn five o’clock shadow and messy hair, he looks human, but not in a comforting way—in a devastating, I’m-your-undoing kind of way.
His eyes are glued to me, and the intensity in them makes my stomach flip.
And of course, Shantelle is here with him, looking like she just stepped off a magazine cover.
She’s the first to speak.
“Claire Montague?” she says, eyes narrowed. “I didn't know we were having extra company.”
“We wer
