Page 47

Correction: not a stranger. My boss. My extremely wealthy, powerful, annoyingly attractive boss whose sheets probably cost more than my monthly rent and whose body is wrapped around mine like he's afraid I might evaporate.
I blink against the brightness, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. This is definitely not my IKEA bed frame or West Elm comforter.
The memories of last night rush back in a delicious flood—the museum terrace, the ride to his penthouse, and everything that followed. Every. Scorching. Detail.
I slept with Roman Kade.
Not just slept with—I let him do things that would make Olivia's romance novels blush. That he did with an expertise that confirmed all those "Most Eligible Bachelor" headlines weren't just about his bank account.
I carefully extract myself from Roman's embrace, trying not to wake him. He looks different in sleep—younger, less guarded. The perpetual furrow between his brows has smoothed out, andhis mouth, usually set in that stern CEO line, is relaxed. It's like seeing behind the mask he wears all day.
I should be freaking out right now. Having proper post-one-night-stand panic. Planning my walk of shame. Wondering if I still have a job.
Instead, I'm... curious. How often does anyone get to see the real Roman Kade, not the carefully constructed public image? His penthouse is like a museum exhibit titled "The Private Life of a Billionaire," and I suddenly have an all-access pass.
I slide out of bed, wincing slightly at the not unpleasant soreness between my thighs—a physical reminder of just how thoroughly I've complicated my professional life. Grabbing the first thing I find—his discarded dress shirt from last night—I fasten the remaining buttons on it and roll up the sleeves that hang past my fingertips.
The hardwood is cool against my bare feet as I pad through the bedroom into the main living area. In daylight, the penthouse is even more impressive.
Sunlight pours through the windows, highlighting the meticulous design choices—modern but not cold, luxurious without being ostentatious.
But the unexpected personal touches catch my attention.
A wall of bookshelves holds actual, well-read books—not the leather-bound decorative collections I'd expected. I run my fingers along the spines, surprised to find dog-eared paperbacks mixed with first editions. Poetry collections. Philosophy. Art books with cracked spines.
On a side table sits a framed photograph of a teenage Roman with his arm around a young woman—his sister, maybe? They're laughing, caught in a candid moment that looks nothing like the stern-faced CEO I know.
In the kitchen–bigger than my entire apartment– a collection of mismatched coffee mugs contradicts the otherwiseperfectly coordinated space. One says "World's Okayest Brother" in faded letters. Another has a cartoon of Darth Vader holding a cup of coffee with the caption "I find your lack of caffeine disturbing."
Who even is this man?
The Roman Kade who uses Star Wars mugs and reads poetry can't possibly be the same intimidating figure who makes junior executives tremble during budget meetings.
"Find anything incriminating yet?"
I nearly jump out of my skin—or rather, his shirt—at the sound of his voice behind me. I spin around to find Roman leaning against the doorframe, wearing only pajama bottoms that hang low on his hips. His dark wavy hair is adorably mussed, and there's a slight shadow of stubble along his jaw that makes him look dangerously unlike himself.
"Just conducting market research." I recover quickly, gesturing to the mugs. "I had no idea the fearsome Roman Kade was a closet nerd."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "If that gets out, I'll have to deny it completely. My reputation as a soulless corporate tyrant is carefully maintained."
"Your secret's safe with me," I promise, then add with a smirk, "along with all your other secrets from last night."
His eyes darken slightly as they travel down the length of my body in his shirt. "That looks significantly better on you than it does on me."
"I don't know," I counter, letting my own gaze appreciate the view of his bare chest. "I think you wear nothing quite well."
There's a moment of charged silence when we both remember exactly what happened last night. What could easily happen again if either of us makes a move.
Instead, Roman clears his throat and steps into the kitchen. "Hungry?"
"Starving," I admit, relieved and maybe a tiny bit disappointed by the shift in mood.
"I make excellent hangover eggs," he says, opening the refrigerator with the casual confidence of someone who actually uses their kitchen rather than just keeping it as a showpiece.
"You cook?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.
"Don't sound so shocked." He extracts eggs, cheese, and various vegetables. "I do possess some domestic skills beyond signing checks to my housekeeper."