BECCA GASPED AND straightened, tugging her purse up to her shoulder. Devon held on to her cheek for a long moment, calloused fingers brushing the skin behind her ear before he dropped his hand and stepped away to greet Pascal.
Stupid.
As in she was for falling for Devon’s magical man-scent and his hard body and — her heart gave a little tumble — his sweet side.
The man made her stupid… which was exactly why she needed to keep her distance, magical man-scent or not.
She unlocked her car, tucked her keys back into her purse, then reached into the glovebox. After grabbing a handful of napkins, she went to work at wiping off the paint.
Or attempting to anyway.
The black letters smeared and blurred but didn’t come off. Though at least it looked less like the c-word and more like a giant ebony blob engulfing one entire side of her car.
“Ms. Stealing?”
She smiled and turned to Pascal. The bodyguard was standing behind her, shifting slightly from foot to foot. Even in her few months at the firm, she’d come to like him. He was a strange combination of awkward and capable, endearing and tough. She’d seen him take down an overzealous fan before he’d reached Devon’s side and just as easily comfort a child who’d fallen and hurt her knee.
“Hi, Pascal.”
“Your keys, please.”
Becca blinked. “For what?”
“He’s going to take your car to the shop, get that paint off,” Devon said from right behind her.
She hadn’t heard him move, but she’d certainly felt him — or her body had.
Raised hairs on her nape, heat between her thighs, a tilt-a-whirl for a heart. She was falling apart… or just falling for Devon.
“I can take care—”
Devon came close and snatched her purse from her arm. He’d reached inside and plucked her keys free before she’d done more than utter a sound of protest.
“Come on,” he said, tossing them to Pascal and picking up the files from where she’d set them on the driver’s seat. “We’re going to lunch.”
He’d rattled her, totally discombobulated her senses. That was the reason she didn’t protest.
Not because he’d snagged her hand after he’d slung her purse over his shoulder — which, for God-knew-why, didn’t look ridiculous.
Definitely not because his warm fingers stroking along hers felt incredible.
No. Definitely not.
It wasn’t until she was in the passenger seat of his BMW and really digging the butt warmer that she found her voice.
“What are you playing at, Devon?”
He’d been shrugging out of his suit jacket and froze at her question.
Chocolate irises flashed to hers, held. His jaw clenched. His nostrils flared as he released a long slow breath.
“I’m not playing at anything.” He tossed the jacket on the back seat.
She toyed with the seatbelt strap, running her fingers over the nylon, up and down, up and down.
Devon’s gaze went hot.
Becca froze, then pressed on. “You want me gone.”
He pushed the button to start the car, and it rumbled to life. “Yes.”
Her gut twisted.
“But not for the reason you think.”
Something like hope bubbled up in her belly, only it couldn’t be. Even putting the matter of Devon being her boss aside, he was still way out of her league in everything else.
“Why then?”
Silence.
Dead silence as Devon drove them down the street. Silence as they got on the freeway, silence as they pulled into the parking lot of an Italian restaurant — her favorite, which she was starting to think wasn’t a coincidence.
Silence until Devon turned off the car.
“You’re fired.”
She gasped, opened her mouth—
He kissed her.