A beat of silence.
Then he said, voice rough and far too amused,
“You look like a wet duckling in a lace corset.”
“BRA. It’s a bra!”
He coughed. “Sure.”
:
“Don’t–don’t you dare smirk. This isn’t funny. I’m dying,” I growled at him.
71
55 vouchers
Steven was definitely smirking now. “If dying includes a slow–motion water scene and a sheer shirt, then yes, it’s absolutely fatal.”
I let out a strangled, mortified squeak and tried to pull the shirt away from my chest–which only made things worse.
“STOP LOOKING.”
“I’m not blind. Just observant.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You’re wet,” he rolled his eyes.
I gasped, scandalized. “That’s harassment!”
“That’s an observation.”
He rolled closer, clearly enjoying this way too much. His eyes were darker now, unreadable. Heated. Following every drip of water sliding down my collarbone.
“I’m going to go change now,” I snapped, dignity dragging behind me like a wet towel.
“Sure. Take your time.”
And as I stomped away, sloshing like a rain boot, I heard him say under his breath-“That faucet deserves a
raise.”
Steven McLeon, you arrogant, flirty, devil–wheeled disaster.
Game, On.
*****
(Steven’s POV)
11:26 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 8
Okay. So let’s get this out of the way:
:
I did not expect that. I mean, I knew Madison was pretty.
Annoying. Loud. Short.
(71
E 55 vouchers
But still pretty. The kind of pretty that sneaks up on you in the middle of a fight about gluten. But that? That was next–level chaos.
She stood in the middle of my kitchen–drenched. Glistening. Breathless and flushed with panic.
Her oversized white T–shirt, now soaking wet, clung to her like it had a grudge against modesty. And underneath?
Red. Lacy. Bra.
A fiery crime against my self–control.
And her body? Damn.
Not the usual type I was used to. Not the supermodel string bean “I–only–eat–air–and–celery” kind that I was constantly surrounded by before the accident. No.
She had curves. Real. Stunning. Hypnotizing.
She looked like… like spring. Like summer mornings and fresh mangoes and sin.
She was soft in all the right places.
But carried herself like a storm that refused to apologize.
The kind of woman who made you forget what misery felt like.
Except she had a mouth. A mouth that could sass God into second–guessing Himself.
If only I could duct tape that thing and keep the rest.
I sat there, frozen in my chair, pretending I was processing the kitchen flood, but really just processing the way that water was dripping down her neck and soaking the edges of her shorts, and how she kept tugging the
from her chest in a panic, only making it so much worse.
shirt
away
She looked like a wet, furious angel.
A disaster. A fever dream. A cupcake with a rocket launcher.
And my brain?
Useless. Don’t go there, Steven.
You are not going to mentally undress your physical therapist who is yelling about a faucet while looking like a romcom fantasy.
11:26 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 8
…Too late.
And honestly?
71
E 55 vouchers
That faucet? Deserves a raise. A standing ovation. Maybe even a promotion. Because now all I could think about was Madison–Soaked. Red lace. Laughing. Blushing. And very, very real. God help me. Because I think I’m in trouble.
*****
(Madison’s POV)
I marched–dripped–out of the kitchen and into my room like a dramatic soap opera lead who’d just been caught in a monsoon mid–breakup.
Humiliated. Soaked. Slightly aroused. Confused. Violated by plumbing.
The water squished in my slippers. My shirt stuck to my skin like it had unionized against me.
My bra? Bold. Loud. Revolutionary. I shut the door behind me and slid down to the floor with a groan. “Why, faucet? Why betray me like this?”
A soft knock made me shoot up like a startled cat.
“Miss Luis?” came the calm, aristocratic voice of Jeeves, our charming butler who I was convinced once served tea to the Queen… or possibly assassinated people for MI6 in his youth.
“I brought towels and a change of clothes from the emergency wardrobe.”
Emergency wardrobe. Of course they had one.
This penthouse probably had a backup wardrobe for a surprise space launch.
“Thank you, Jeeves,” I squeaked, cracking the door open just enough to grab the items. “Please erase everything from your memory starting ten minutes ago.”
“Already done, miss.”
I dried off, changed into leggings and a black tee that smelled faintly like lavender wealth, and wrangled my damp hair into a respectable bun. I was warm, clean, clothed again, and still emotionally violated by that faucet and–worse–Steven McLeon’s eyes.
Because sir?
No one should look at a woman like that after a water explosion. Like I was a snack, a threat, and a Greek myth all at once. I walked back to the kitchen, newly dried and trying to summon what was left of my pride-
-and there he was.
Mr. Rich Rage himself.
11:26 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 8
71
55 Vouchers
Lounging by the counter, drinking coffee like he hadn’t just witnessed a spontaneous wet t–shirt disaster in 4K ultra HD. His expression? Too smug for someone still in sweatpants and a mood. He looked up. “Oh good. You’re alive. I almost called emergency services. You know, for plumbing trauma.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t start.”
He grinned. “Relax. I only sent Jeeves because I was worried you’d drown in your own sass.”
“Jeeves is the real MVP.”
“He’s already putting ‘faucet incident‘ in the staff blooper reel.”
I gasped. “There’s a reel?”
He shrugged. “You’d be shocked how many people injure themselves on designer appliances.”
I muttered, “Your kitchen hates the poor.”
Steven sipped his coffee and gave me a once–over. “You look dry now. Shame. I was getting used to the whole ‘drenched werewolf duckling‘ look.”
I froze. “EXCUSE ME?”
“You know.” He smirked. “Fluffy hair, shocked eyes, water everywhere, attitude like you bit someone for looking at you wrong.”
“That is so rude.”
“Accurate, though.”
“You’re an actual menace.”
“I learned from the best.”
I folded my arms. “I was trying to fix your broken faucet, thank you very much. You’re welcome, by the way.”
He leaned forward a little, tone dropping just enough to tickle my spine. “If that’s how you fix things, I’m terrified of what you’ll do to my Wi–Fi.”
I pointed a spatula at him like a weapon. “One more word, and I’ll replace your garlic rice with steamed kale.”
His grin widened. “Madison.”
“What?”
“Next time you wear red lace under a white shirt, at least charge admission.”
I dropped the spatula.
- OH. MY. GOD.
11:26 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 8
ลด
71
55 vouchers
The audacity. The nerve. The smug expression. And yet… my cheeks were on fire, my heart doing backflips, and deep down?
I was smiling. Stupid faucet.
Stupid red lace. Stupid gorgeous man in a chair who looked at me like I was the only chaos he’d ever want in
his kitchen.
I turned on my heel, face burning, and muttered, “I’m telling your mother.”
And from behind me, I heard him say-
“She already texted me. She said, ‘good taste.””
RUDE.
AD
