Reba’s “Wow” had been an understatement.

He was wearing a suit. She’d never seen Keiran in a suit. Ever. Had known she would see him in one for the wedding but hadn’t even lingered on the thought. Why would she? She didn’t care what he wore, only that his presence would annoy her. But now, he was in this suit, and Cherisse stared, blatantly drinking in the fit of his blue suit jacket on those broad shoulders, the cut of his pants on his trim waist. He had his jacket unbuttoned, and there were a few buttons undone on his white shirt as well, assaulting her eyes with a sliver of brown chest. Cherisse was attacked by a too-vivid image of her pressing her hand to his shirt, right above the waistband of his pants to test what lay beneath all that fabric. She’d been drinking him in, eyes taking it all in, from his shiny brown shoes right up to that bit of exposed skin, and when she finally got to his face, he was smirking, as if he knew just what wayward thoughts floated through her head.

Holy. Shit. This was the moment she hated Keiran King more than ever. Because he was too much in that suit. His goatee was perfectly trimmed. It framed those quirked lips perfectly. His smile was dangerous. She moved past it to the rest of his face. Those deep-brown eyes never left her face and brimmed with amusement. His hair was low, brushed down into black waves, the edges marked to precision.

She wanted to topple one of the dessert towers on him. Mess up that damn suit. Anything to ruin the picture of contained sexiness he gave off as he stood there.

“We match,” he said, annoying smile growing wider.

Cherisse said nothing, refusing to acknowledge that they did indeed have on the same shade of blue. What were the fucking odds? And who gave him the right to walk around an event like this with that much chest exposed?

“Hey, lemme get a shot with your award?” Remi’s question jolted Cherisse to her senses. She’d been hardcore staring at Keiran, having semi-lustful thoughts. She needed a drink or two, possibly more.

Remi got into work mode and posed Keiran and his co-producer, Dale Anderson, next to one of the dessert towers. Cherisse could always count on Remi to get in promo for Sweethand no matter what. Dale hammed it up for the camera, handing Keiran one of the two awards she hadn’t even noticed Dale had been holding. Hell, she’d barely noticed Dale, which was unbelievable because his suit was this loud, shiny maroon number with a multi-colored pocket square that would probably singe her eyes if she got too close.

Dale plucked one of the small rose-shaped desserts from the tower and popped it in his mouth. “Lord Jesus, perfection as always.” He grinned at Cherisse as he chewed. “Sugar Queen, you never disappoint.”

“Thank you.” Yes, focus on Dale. Ignore Keiran’s very existence. In this moment, Keiran King and his offending suit did not fucking exist.