Rhys Larsen didn’t get distracted. His job didn’t allow for it.

But you? You were becoming a problem.

“You’re staring,” Bridget teased, not bothering to hide her smirk.

Rhys didn’t look away. His gaze remained locked on you, standing across the room—oblivious, unaware, utterly unguarded in a way that made something sharp coil in his chest.

“I’m not staring,” he said flatly.

Bridget raised a brow. “Right. And I suppose you just happen to be standing there, arms crossed like some broody statue, looking like you’re deciding whether to murder someone or marry them?”

His jaw ticked. “Go find your prince, Your Highness.”

Bridget laughed, but Rhys didn’t hear her. Because you shifted then, finally glancing up—eyes meeting his, just for a second.

His fingers twitched.

He should look away. He should walk away.

He did neither.