The door slowly crept open, giving me full view of his back. Sure it was completely covered by a crisp, white shirt, but the taut muscles visible beneath the pieces of fabric and impeccable stitches sent my imagination into overdrive. He had one of those backs—the type most women could picture dragging their fingernails down. A little too unashamedly, even for a former escort, I allowed my eyes to wander the rest of his towering form. Short, straight light brown hair, an ass that rivaled his back, and long legs inside tailored black dress pants.
Curiosity would be my undoing, I was sure of it.
“Next time, Isadora” he began in a husky voice that held a note of laughter, “don’t ask me down here if you’re just going to—“
“You barely even work here,” Dora yelled hotly from inside her office. “So get the fuck out!”
“God, the professionalism…” His broad shoulders shaking, he turned completely around and strode into the lobby, his toned body relaxed in spite of the argument. He stopped short when he noticed Stella and the receptionist staring at him, their mouths hanging open.
He smirked—a cocky turn of his lips that had me gripping my bag closer to my chest. Grins like Oliver’s…they were the ones that shattered even the most cautious.
“Ladies,” he drawled, inclining his head politely. Turning slightly in my direction, he tipped his head once more. Our gazes met, and his grin widened. Blue eyes. He had cornflower blue eyes fringed with sooty black lashes. They were set in a narrow face, accentuated by a slightly crooked nose, and rivaled only by lips that were—dare I say—almost pouty.
It was a face that, paired with his godlike physique and ADHD dating habits, had the gossip columns calling him “the bad boy next door.”
But me? I only knew him as Oliver Manning.