Page 71 of The Devil of Downtown

I blink at him. “You’re putting itonme?”

He doesn’t say anything as he loosens the towel—just looks at me with that familiar heat that makes it hard to think. His fingers brush my skin when the fabric falls away. I shiver, my nipples tightening under his steady gaze.

When he lifts the shirt, I raise my arms without thinking. The fabric slips over my head and settles around me, and I breathe in his cologne—that clean, warm scent that clings to me even after he steps back.

“I promised you a drink,” he says, already moving away, while I stand on mute. Clearly, this man has no plans to put any clothes on. Well, I guess if I had his body, I’d want to flaunt it.

I nod, and he leads me through the large space into a sleek kitchen lined with dark stone, warm wood, and soft under-cabinet light. It feels lived in yet perfectly kept—very him.

He opens the fridge. “What do you want? I’ve got—”

His phone vibrates loudly.

He checks the screen and sighs. “Zurich. They always forget time zones exist.” He looks at me. “Give me a few minutes?”

“Go. I’ll manage.”

He disappears into his office, door half-shut, his voice shifting into that clipped, business tone.

I turn back to the fridge and open it wide.

And... wow.

I’ve never been so fascinated by the contents of someone’s fridge. It’s a personality study disguised as food storage. If fridges could win awards, this one would sweep the category. Everything is lined up perfectly. The labels all face forward, like they were told to smile for a photo. Artisan cheeses, importedjars, labels lined up. It’s basically a billionaire starter pack of ingredients I wouldn’t know how to pronounce without Google.

Then—salvation.

A jar of peanut butter tucked on the middle shelf, like a tiny act of rebellion.

At least he hasonerelatable trait.

I grab the first bottle I find—a glass one with a black label that readsAmazonian açaí berry infusion—twist the cap, and take a sip.

Instant regret.

It tastes like spinach that’s been marinated in seaweed, and then emotionally neglected. The shock hits so hard I splutter it right back out in a disgraceful mist over the fridge door.

What the hell was that?

I grab a paper towel and wipe every droplet like I’m cleaning up evidence at a crime scene. Then, panicking at the idea of him noticing the full bottle untouched, I shove it deep behind a row of artisanal sauces I can’t pronounce.

I take a cold bottle of water instead. Much safer. Then I head for the lounge like none of this ever happened.

I curl into the corner of the couch, tugging a cushion over my legs, and turn the TV on for something to look at besides my own thoughts. The home screen is still on the default profile, no watch history, no half-finished shows, nothing to suggest he ever sits here long enough to watch anything, a striking contrast to ours at home, cluttered with Sloane’s abandoned series and Elsie’s cartoons. I pick the first thing I don’t have to follow and let it play.

But I’m exhausted.

The oversized T-shirt is warm. The couch is perfect. And within minutes, my eyes droop.

Somewhere far away, I hear his office door open. His footsteps approach, quiet and slow.

“Ivy?”

I make a sound that is definitely not actual words.

He chuckles under his breath. “Sleeping Beauty returns.”

The cushions dip as he leans over me, then strong arms slide under me, one beneath my knees, the other at my back, and I’m lifted with effortless ease, my head tipping against his shoulder.