Wheeler (Seattle Sharks 8)

He took another drink, his eyes never leaving mine as he nodded. “You’re very good at this.”

I chuckled. “Ordering coffee?”

“Figuring out what I like. It’s hard for most people.”

I sucked in a breath, my mind spinning from a genuine compliment that wasn’t delivered in the form of a tease. “Because of the language barrier?” I asked, wanting, despite myself, to know more about him. About the Lukas who lived here, not the one who was splashed on screens coming out of clubs with girls on each arm.

He tilted his head from side to side. “Yes and no.”

I waited, patient, silent, observing—as any good assistant would do. As any good PR rep would do—I had to be able to read my client, perceive his moods, his needs.

The man was content to lean against the counter, sipping that coffee, never taking those eyes off mine. It was as unnerving as it was easy to be under his gaze. Which didn’t make any sense, much like the man before me.

After I’d shifted my weight under his stare for the fourth time, I finally said, “You said something about boxes?”

He drained the last of his drink and tossed it in the trash. “Yes.”

I raised my brows. “And they’re filled with…”

“Clothes.”

My shoulders sagged a bit.

He narrowed his gaze as he walked toward me. “What did you think was in them?” he asked as he passed me, and I spun on my flats to follow him, leaving my coffee behind on the island.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. It could’ve been anything—books, Swedish delicacies, women’s panties sent from adoring fans.

He led us to one of his spare rooms that was empty save for the aforementioned boxes and several industrial grade rails with vacant hangers on them. One wall was covered in a mirror like this room was intended to be a yoga studio or workout room but he hadn’t finished it.

He crouched by the nearest box, his nimble fingers sliding underneath the lip of the cardboard to spring the lid free as he looked up at me.

For once, I was looking down at him—him practically on his knees before me—and it did awful, wonderful, terrible things to my insides. I went liquid at the sight, at the smirk on those lips and the mischief in those eyes.

“From the look on your face,” he said, opening the box. “You were thinking something much different would be in here. Something like the toys Connor had hidden all over his place.”

I swallowed hard, knowing exactly what he was referring to—thanks to Ivy’s and my friendship, I knew too much about my brother’s other best friend, Connor, who had a taste for special…toys.

My already warm skin grew hotter, but I shook my head and forced out a laugh as I moved to the next box. “Please,” I said, rolling my eyes for good measure. “I was more afraid it would be fan mail and that you’d force me to answer.”

His head snapped in my direction. “I’d never force you to do anything.”

His tone was enough to pause my opening the box. “No,” I said, quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that.” I sighed. “If you asked me to answer fan mail, I would. It would be part of my job.”

The severe look in his eyes faded, and the smirk returned. “But you wouldn’t like it.”

I chuckled. “Turning down women throwing themselves at you over and over again? No, that wouldn’t be my idea of a fun afternoon.”

“It’s easy,” he said, shrugging. “After a time.”

“What?” I asked, reaching into the box, my hands instantly meeting plastic-covered garment bags.

“Turning down women.”

A laugh ripped from my chest.

He laughed too, shaking his head. “It is.”

“Sure, sure,” I said, pulling out the bags. “When there are dozens a day, it must be extremely easy to have an auto-response.”

“You jest,” he said, and I snorted a bit at his use of the word. “But that’s not what makes it easy.”

“Then pray tell,” I said, trying my hardest to match his accent. “What is it then?”

His eyes returned to his own box. “When you already know what you want, it’s easy to say no to what you don’t.”

My fingers froze with a bag halfway out of my box, my eyes on him.

He doesn’t mean me.

I don’t know why my foolish body reacted in a way that made me think he had, but it didn’t stop me from asking, “And what is it you want, Lukas?”

I genuinely wanted to know. Because ever since landing this job…in only a week he’d shown me a different side of him, one I wasn’t even sure Eric knew.

He stood, garment bags in hand, and my eyes followed him up and up and up as I remained on the floor. “Right now?” he asked, looking down at me.

“Yes.”

He parted his lips but then closed them. “I want to try on these samples so you can send word back which pieces we approve of and which need adjustments.”

The breath rushed out of my lungs, and I immediately reached for another unopened box. “Of course,” I said, my fingers slightly trembling as I opened it.

Silly girl.

Of course, he didn’t mean me.

He may tease and flirt. And he may have kissed and played my body like a mastered instrument with nothing but his fingers, but he’d turned me down. It was probably like a Tuesday night for him.

It didn’t matter that it had been everything to me.

And it couldn’t matter.

Because I had a job to do.

Experience to gain.

And a business to open.

Three hours of watching Lukas freaking Vestergaard slip on luxury fabrics cut specifically for his body was a cruel and delightful punishment for all the unfit thoughts I had about my boss. We’d dragged in a chair from the study for me to sit in after we’d managed to unbox the inordinate amount of clothes sent from his personal tailor in Sweden. Adrenaline would be manufactured based off of his choices, as long as everything went according to plan.

And how could it not?

One look at Lukas in any of the items was enough to send any woman or man into a frenzy. As it was, I didn’t even realize I was gripping the edge of the leather chair until my knuckles barked in protest.

“Which one is your favorite?” Lukas asked, never taking his eyes off of himself in the wall-sized mirror. He adjusted the royal blue suit he’d slipped on, the material with a subtle shimmering tint when he moved in the light. On anyone else it may have seemed over the top, but for him? Kill-me-now gorgeous.

“They all look good.”

He froze, his eyes snapping to mine. His arms dropped by his sides, almost defeated. “Good?”

I nodded.

“Good?”

A slightly panicked smile shaped my lips as I took in the insecurity in his eyes. I rose from my chair, my legs grateful for the stretch. “Omigod,” I said, holding back my shock. “You’re seriously worried?”

He furrowed his brow, shaking his head. “No.”

“You are,” I said, stepping beside him, gazing up at him like I was seeing him for the first time. “The famed Lukas Vestergaard is worried that his own clothes don’t look good on him.”

A growl rumbled from his chest as he glared down at me, amusement in his eyes. “You keep using that word.”

I tilted my head, my eyes trailing the length of perfection standing next to me. I glanced at him in the mirror. The two of us next to each other—it took the wind right out of my sails.

There he was—worried—in all his ten-thousand-dollar suit glory, looking like a supernatural creature built to lure women in before devouring them…and then there was me.

I barely came up to his chest in my worn ballet flats, and my black skinny jeans and plain green T-shirt were so obviously from Target. I’d never cared before. I had my own style, which was one part dark colors and one part comfort, but compared to him? I could’ve been…

His best friend’s little sister. His not-yet-out-of-colleg

e personal assistant. That’s exactly what I looked like. And, in reality, that is who I truly was…so why did it irk me so much? I had jumped for joy when he had insisted I dress as I wanted for the job. He hadn’t demanded I wear pencil skirts and blouses like the other candidates had shown up dressed as for the interview…so why was I now wishing I looked a little more put together?

“Good,” I said again, but this time it only came out a whisper.

His eyes were on mine in the mirror. “Good won’t…how do you say it? Make the snip?”

I scrunched my brow, sifting through his words before smiling softly. “Make the cut?”

He nodded, fingers at his tie, loosening it enough to take it off before he tossed it on one of the industrial racks. With the aggressive way he took off the jacket, and then the dress shirt, I could tell how unnerved he was. How worried.

This was important to him.

Like, really, really important to him.

And I’d assumed the gorgeous walking perfection could never be insecure about anything. I’d misread my client…my boss.

“Hey,” I said, swallowing hard as I watched the muscles in his back flex as he hung up the dress shirt on a hanger. “I’m awful with words sometimes.” I cleared my throat, wondering why my heart was suddenly clogging it. “You look…” I sighed. “You look like you stepped out of a carriage in front of some grand royal palace.”