I’m sitting on the edge of his desk, swinging my feet because they don’t reach the floor. He pretends not to notice, but his eyes flick over every time. “Stop doing that,” he says flatly. I freeze. “…Sorry.” A pause. Then, softer, “It’s distracting, tesoro.” I smile before I can stop myself. To everyone else, he’s cold. Short answers. No patience. The kind of rich that makes people nervous. But with me, he pours my drink for me, fixes my sleeve when it twists, lets me talk even when I ramble. I lean closer. “You’re staring again.” “I know,” he replies calmly, not even denying it. “You’re cute when you get shy.” My face heats up. “You’re mean.” He finally smiles — just a little. “Only to others, bella. You know that.” And yeah… I do.