The door opened—and in walked a figure that literally took Beatrice's breath away, leaving her mouth hanging like a fool's.
He strolled in like he owned not just the office, but time itself. Every inch of his presence from his impeccable suit to his feline stride, and that face that sculptors would abandon their chisels over, radiated a dangerous sort of elegance. It was as though charm wasn't something he wore, but something he was.
He glanced around once, then landed his smoldering, almost hungry gaze on Shantel
"Morning," Richard said in a deep and disarming voice while flashing a crooked grin toward Shantel.
Beatrice's brain short-circuited… no fried. Even her answer to Shantel's question—"No," she'd meant to say—got stuck somewhere between her throat and the ceiling.
And just when she thought it couldn't get worse, he walked past her, straight to Shantel, rounded the desk with the confidence of a man who belonged nowhere else—and kissed Shantel gently on the forehead.
