And nearly choke when he reveals who’s behind him. My limp body finds life and my back straightens.

What. The. Fuck?

I slowly stand from my chair, fully aware that her gaze rises with me. Is this her? Is this the woman who’s filled my new place with all that Italian shit—Italian shit that inflated the price by another million quid?

I start walking around my desk, taking her in, every gorgeous little bit of her. Well, this is a pleasant surprise. The women around here, they’re mostly mid-thirties plus. She’s, what? Mid-twenties? Too young for me. Way too young for me.

I nibble my bottom lip, thinking, noting her eyes still firmly set on me. She looks a little . . . struck. I inwardly smile.

My legs are moving, but I can’t feel the damn things. My mind is clean. My vision clear. My senses alert. Almost like when I finish a fifteen-mile run. I like those feelings, but I like them more when I’ve not had to nearly kill myself to achieve that sense of freedom. I reach up and feel my jaw. I should’ve shaved. Do I look older with stubble?

I close the distance between us, taking her in. Jesus, she’s getting more beautiful the closer I get, her dark hair pinned up, her perfect little figure screaming for me to run my hands all over it. I want to remove those pins and plunge my fingers into those shiny locks. Her eyes, good God, those dark eyes.

Jesus, Ward, pull it together.

But . . . I’m not alone in my admiring. She’s taking me in, assessing every part of me. I’m not what she expected either. What was she expecting?

John said Miss O’Shea, didn’t he? Miss.

She’s sublime. Completely and utterly sublime.

And so totally out of place around here. Lord, if any of the men of The Manor caught sight of her, they’d be fighting over who got her in the communal room first. It would be a frenzy, possibly even a bloodbath.

Smile at her. I should smile at her, but my trusty smile is nowhere to be found. I’m being failed by my magnetic asset, feeling like I’ve been sucker-punched in the gut. Her gaze. It’s not pouring with longing for me, something that usually gets under my skin.

She’s . . . unsure. Stunned into silence and stillness. I’m with her.

I finally convince my arm to lift, offering my hand. She remains motionless. Frozen. In a trance. I’m giving her three seconds before I’m moving in.

One.

Two.

Three.