(Steven’s POV)
55 vouchers.
I was not prepared. I mean–I knew she was getting a day off. I assumed she’d do something basic like sleep, doom–scroll TikTok, maybe overwater one of the succulents I let die two months ago.
I did not expect her to walk back into my penthouse looking like that.
Like that. She entered like a damn storm in stilettos and designer shine.
Hair bouncing like a shampoo commercial in 4K.
Skin? Glowing. Like she drank moonlight and confidence for lunch.
Her walk? Illegal.
Her hips? Weaponized.
Her lips? I’m not even going there because I’m still recovering.
I looked
up
from my bowl of grapes and for a full two seconds, I couldn’t breathe.
No joke.
I stared at her like she was a mirage that said, “You will never be safe again, Steven McLeon.”
And me?
I wanted to grab her waist, pin her against the door, and say every damn thing I’ve been trying not to say since she moved in with her sass, her waffles, and her towel crimes.
But of course-
That would mean admitting I was feeling things.
Dangerous things.
Thoughts like:
“She belongs here.”
“She’d look good in giant T–shirt… again.”
“I want to touch her hair. With both hands. For no reason.”
So what did I do? I reached for another damn grape. Deadpan. Like it was just a casual Sunday and not the day a literal goddess descended from a Dior cloud into my living room.
“You changed your shampoo?”
11:28 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 13
…
I said it like it was nothing.
Inside? Internal screaming.
She gave me a look that could melt diamonds.
I deserved it. I was being strategic.
:
🙂))
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If I said too much, she’d win. She’d sass me into emotional vulnerability. She’d get smug, then flirty, then maybe one day stop looking at me like I was just a job.
So yeah, I played dumb. I played cold.
Meanwhile, my brain was malfunctioning because she looked like she’d just stepped off the cover of Rich Girl Monthly and into my damn soul.
Even when she ranted about “clean” and “mops” and how I was “immune to beauty” (???), I just smirked and said something stupid like:
“Better than looking dusty.”
But the truth?
She looked like my last prayer wrapped in luxury and lipstick.
She was still her–still Madison. Still mouthy, stubborn, bossy. But sharper. Glossier. More… dangerous.
And I liked it.
Too much.
Then she leaned close. Whispered something smug. Walked off like a dream in motion.
And for a moment, I sat there, hand frozen over a grape, just thinking:
“I am so screwed.”
Because this isn’t a game anymore. Not for me.
And if she ever finds out?
God help me. Because I might just let her win.
I stared at the hallway long after she disappeared into her room, the scent of her designer perfume still lingering in the air like some expensive curse.
Why did she have to smell like money and temptation?
Why did she have to walk like that? Like she owned the floor. Like she’d upgraded my penthouse just by breathing in it.
11:28 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 13
:
I reached for another grape. Missed.
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Because my brain was somewhere else. Somewhere between her hips, that glossy blowout, and the curve of her waist when she leaned in earlier.
Jesus. Focus.
But I couldn’t.
Because that wasn’t just Madison being cute.
That wasn’t sass. That was power.
That was the kind of glow–up that made you rethink your entire life plan. That made you wonder if she’d look that good wearing nothing but one of your button–downs, sipping coffee and smirking like she knows you’re wrecked.
And the worst part?
She does know. She sees it. She feels it.
She walked away victorious, probably grinning into her stupid rich–girl pillow while I sat here, sweating over waffles and womanly wiles like a teenage boy.
I stood up from the couch–tried to shake it off.
Rolled into the kitchen. Thought maybe I’d make coffee or hide in the fridge.
Instead, I glanced at the counter where she’d left her purse. Dior. Obviously.
And next to it? A pink sticky note she must’ve scribbled when I wasn’t looking.
“Don’t miss me too much. Try not to drool over my afterglow -M”
What the actual hell.
This woman was terrorizing me with post–spa sticky notes.
I should’ve been mad.
Instead? I laughed. Low and involuntarily. And maybe a little too fondly,
Cod, she was driving me insane. And the worst part? I didn’t want her to stop.
I wanted more sass. More notes. More of her weird, chaotic energy filling every corner of my penthouse.
Hell–my life had been too quiet before she barged in with her five thrift–store shirts and one gallon of
attitude. Now?
Now I was waking up before 10 a.m.
11:28 Thu, Sep 18
Chapter 13
Drinking real coffee. Doing actual PT.
Smiling. Laughing.
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And yes, maybe daydreaming about what she’d look like wrapped in my sheets, yelling at me for hiding the remote again.
I rolled back toward the hallway, slowed down outside her room.
I should say something.
Anything. I should knock. Ask if she wants dinner. Ask if she wants a truce.
But all I did was stand there. Listening.
Then? I turned around.
Because this wasn’t the moment.
Not yet. But soon?
Yeah. She’d know.
That Steven McLeon, emotionally constipated, ex–racer, PT nightmare-
Was falling for his mouthy little goddess in Dior.
AD
