What was wrong with them? They were smart, competent women who spent their days cutting anyone who got in the way of their work down to size. Now they were standing here arguing over who would get Vansh tea?

“There’s every color of tea in the kitchen down the hall. I’m pretty certain you can find the green kind too.” She turned around and walked out of the pink suite without waiting for him to follow.

Naturally he followed, because suddenly it seemed like getting rid of him was not easy business.

Her three employees tried to follow too, but she glared at them and they went back to their desks.

“Grab a tea bag.” She pointed at the tea box on the red quartz sideboard and picked up an Omnivore mug. Red with a black crow in flight, which looked a bit like a check mark if you asked her. But Jiggy had paid someone millions for a black crow in flight, so that’s what it was.

Shoving the cup under the spout, she jabbed her finger into the annoyingly complicated drinks machine. It had taken her a week to figure out where the hot-water button was.

“That’s a needlessly complicated coffee machine,” Vansh said, looking through the tea and picking one, his body still telegraphing lazy nonchalance. “Ginger and lemongrass work for you?”

She thought about drinking a different tea just because she didn’t want to admit he’d gotten that right. Satisfying as that would be, she needed her favorite tea right now more than she needed juvenile spite.

Handing him an empty mug, she snatched the ginger-lemongrass tea bag from him and dunked it into her cup of hot water. “You’re in my office.”

“Nice employees,” he deadpanned far too smugly.

He was wearing a shirt that would have fit someone thirty-odd pounds lighter. Which made it perfectly clear that the shirt’s job was to help one imagine what he looked like without it. Not that she had to imagine. Her brain cells were still trying to purge the vision of his bare chest with a tattoo she was proud she hadn’t looked at.

“You’re thinking about me without my shirt, aren’t you?”

She scowled at him. “You have such a high opinion of yourself. What kind of person is so comfortable with his . . . his . . .”

“Body? Hotness?”

“Obnoxiousness.”

“I was just objectified for . . .” He scratched the back of his head in that ridiculous thinking-hard gesture. “For standing there. And I’m obnoxious?”

“Well, you are wearing a shirt that you seem to have picked up in the kids’ section, so . . .”

He dumped his used tea bag into a bright red trash can and blew into his mug, making steam rise around his face. “Did you just blame my clothing for the fact that those women were undressing me with their eyes?”

The bastard was smiling.