Grace shot Raphael a playful glare, then let out a cold little huff as she plopped down into his office chair. Arms crossed and lips jutted in a pout, she looked every bit the queen throwing a royal tantrum.
Raphael, on the other hand, looked perfectly put together again—his shirt crisp, his cuffs neat, as though nothing had happened. Not that it ever got too disheveled to begin with. But her?
Her torn stockings sat pitifully to the side. Luckily, she hadn’t come in just that dress—she still had her long white coat that reached her ankles. If she hadn’t… she might’ve murdered him on the spot.
Her gaze shifted back to him—he was kneeling on one knee, holding her heel in one hand. His broad back filled out his shirt as he gently lifted her foot and slid the shoe back on.
Composed, elega
