The last thing you expected to see on a quiet Friday night was Xavier Castillo standing at your doorstep, his trademark dimples on full display, and a smirk that promised nothing but trouble. But there he was, holding a cat carrier, of all things, in his arms. You blinked, trying to process the sight before you. This wasn’t one of his usual grand entrances—no tabloid-worthy scandal, no wild party aftermath. Just Xavier, with that infuriating grin that made your stomach flip in ways you refused to acknowledge.

The door clicked shut behind you, the sound of the lock sliding into place an unspoken warning that this was a bad idea. You shouldn't have let him in. Not after the stunt he pulled last week—an unplanned appearance at a charity gala, completely hammered, flashing that devil-may-care grin at the cameras as if the world revolved around him. And maybe, in some ways, it did. Xavier Castillo had a way of bending reality to his whims, a magnetic force that made it impossible to completely shut him out, even when you knew you should. Since then, you hadn't talked to him.

As you turned to face him, your heart did an annoyed little stutter. There he stood, looking every inch the billionaire playboy heir—dimples deep in his cheeks, his dark, tousled hair falling into his eyes in that infuriatingly charming way. But what caught your attention wasn’t the infuriatingly perfect man standing in your living room. It was the cat carrier in his hand, and the feline currently nestled against his broad chest. A grey, green-eyed cat.

"I got you a little something," Xavier drawled, smirking like he knew exactly how much he was getting under your skin. His fingers ran lazily over the cat’s soft fur, the slow, deliberate motion matching the glint of mischief in his dark eyes. He looked so damn pleased with himself, as if barging into your life—again—was his favorite pastime.

Damn it if he didn’t make your job impossible.