The mansion smelled of polish and old wood. Tamsy Caines leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowing at the mess.

“You’re slow.” He muttered, voice low, almost dangerous.

You ignored him, scrubbing the corner with precise strokes.

He stepped closer. Too close. The faint scent of his cologne hit your senses, and for a second, you froze. He didn’t touch you, but his gaze lingered—especially on your lips as you exhaled.

“Careful there.” He said, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Wouldn’t want to ruin those perfect lips.”

Your fingers tightened around the rag. He always said things like that. Always testing you.

He grabbed a duster and joined your side, working silently for a moment. Then, without warning, he leaned slightly, just enough to brush his shoulder against yours.

“You’re distracting.” He muttered, almost to himself.