Page 33 of You Rock My World

JOSIE

I thought the weekend was going to suck, but with the text flirting, phone calls, and late-night reading sessions, it’s been surprisingly romantic. The pull between Dorian and me doesn’t waver, or need permission, or care how many miles or walls stand in its way.

As I park at his house on Monday morning and exit the car, my steps are lighter.

Buoyant, even, despite everything that happened Friday night with Billie.

The good mood carries me past the grand foyer, through the familiar hallway, right up to his home office—where it crashes headfirst into an invisible wall.

Something’s wrong.

The atmosphere inside is tight. Not the entire team is present. Only Tessa, Bailey, and Dorian’s lawyer sit stiffly at the table. And Nick is here. I almost missed him, standing guard by the door, still and imposing as if sculpted in stone or marble since his skin looks so flawless.

“Hi,” I say cautiously.

Dorian lifts his head, making me forget about the tension simmering in the room as he smiles at me in that slow, intimate, only-for-me way that speeds up my pulse faster than a triple espresso shot. But under the smile, his jaw is tight. His shoulders tense.

“What’s going on?” I ask, sitting in my usual spot across from Dorian.

Tessa exchanges a look with the lawyer, then says, “We’re discussing Friday night.”

Ah, Billie’s home invasion. I keep my face carefully neutral, determined to sell the “business dinner” story Dorian concocted as our cover.

Tessa turns to Marcia. “Is there really nothing we can do legally?”

“If you can convince him.” The lawyer sighs as if she knows she’s about to deliver a losing argument. “The best course of action would be to file a restraining order.”

“You really should,” Tessa presses, turning to Dorian.

“I said I won’t do it.” He slams a fist on the table. “Even if Billie crossed a line, I wouldn’t call the police on my wife.” A beat, then a guilty side glance at me. “My ex -wife.”

“I hate what she fucking does to you.” It’s the first time I hear Tessa lose her professional composure, but I couldn’t agree more. I loathe seeing Dorian like this—torn, caged, a little lost. “But I won’t let you take it out on me.”

“I’m sorry, Tess, I didn’t mean to snap. You know she drives me up the wall.”

I’m learning it too and hate how easily Billie can drag him into her chaos. But even more, I recoil at the question of why his ex still affects him so much.

That voice in my head, the one I’ve been trying to quiet since Friday, is getting louder, screaming the obvious: that it’s because he’s still in love with her—or at least with the person she was when they met.

It’s the only logical explanation. And no matter what my heart wants, how long can I ignore the warnings?

“You get one pass.” Tessa stands, smoothing out her blazer. “I’ll ask Alfred for one of his famous vanilla lattes.” She scans the room. “Anyone want anything?”

I’d love a latte. But Tessa is being a little scary right now. I’m afraid she’d chew my head off if I asked her to bring me a coffee even if she’s offered.

As if reading my hesitation, Dorian smirks and tells her to please get lattes for everyone. His eyes flick to me as Tessa leaves, and he gives me a small nod, silently confirming that yes, the lattes are for me. I mouth a quick, “Thank you.”

“Well.” Marcia stands. “That’s all the advice I can give you. I’ll draft the restraining order, anyway. If you change your mind, I’ll be ready to file immediately.”

“Appreciate it, Marcia.”

“Sure.” She snaps her briefcase shut. “And think about upgrading your security while you’re at it.”

With that, she strides out, stilettos clicking on the floor.

Tessa returns then, trailed by a maid carrying a tray of mugs. I accept mine and take a sip. Mmm—velvety smooth, creamy, perfectly frothed, the kind of coffee that makes you close your eyes to savor it. I get why Alfred’s lattes are so famous.

Tessa takes a long sip, too, then flicks her gaze toward the empty seat beside me. Face grim. “I guess Marcia’s exit means you’re not filing the restraining order.”

“I’m not,” Dorian confirms. “I’d rather focus on how Billie got inside the house.”

He turns to Nick. The only sign that the bodyguard is not, in fact, carved from stone is the fractional shift of his feet as he widens his stance before he speaks, eyes fixed straight ahead. “Sir, we’ve conducted a thorough sweep of the house?—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Nick,” Dorian interrupts. “Take a seat and stop hovering like a bat.”

I would’ve compared him more to a vampire with centuries of honed discipline, but sure.

Nick approaches the table with the gait of a soldier ordered into unfamiliar terrain: rigid, measured, and painfully awkward to watch. He pulls a chair out and sits —ramrod straight, posture impeccable.

He’s about to continue his report when Dorian slides a mug toward him. “And have a latte.”

Nick eyes the mug like it’s a radioactive water ration. “Sir, I don’t really drink lattes.”

Dorian nods. “You will after this.”

The only outward sign of Nick’s discomfort is the faintest flush creeping up his neck. Still, he stoically brings the mug to his mouth and takes a sip.

We watch, silent, waiting until Nick’s eyes widen. Not even the most impervious man on the planet can stop his reaction to the most perfect coffee he’ll ever have.

“Delicious, sir.” When he lowers the mug, a white foam mustache clings to his upper lip, making him look unexpectedly human. He continues his report, saying there were no signs of a forced entrance, but we’re all staring at his mouth. He doesn’t notice at first.

I feel for him since I was in a similar position only last week with my Sharpie mustache.

It takes Nick a minute to catch up. The bodyguard stops, looks around, and exhales. “I have a foam mustache, don’t I?”

We nod, biting back laughter.

Nick indulges in another, longer sip, this time deliberately swiping his tongue over his upper lip. “Worth it.” He places the mug down with a satisfied grunt.

Ah. So definitely human.

Dorian turns serious again. “If there were no signs of forced entry, how’d she get in?”

Nick explains how an old garage fob was never deactivated, but that all access devices have been updated now so Billie won’t be able to just use her old keys.

Dorian nods, satisfied. “Perfect.”

Nick stands and makes to return to his spot by the wall, but before going, he stops and takes his latte with him. The rest of us share a quiet laugh.

After that, the meeting is adjourned.

As the others file out, Nick included, I sidle up to Dorian. He pulls me into a hug. His arms tight around me.

I breathe him in. “I missed you.”

His chin rests on top of my head, his voice teasing. “Sure you didn’t dream about Cassian last night?”

I sigh against his chest, letting the warmth of him seep in. “You two are the same in my mind. I even have the visual of you in full armor to go with the fantasies.”

“Mmm… I want to hear in detail about these fantasies, but first, car keys.” He extends his hand, palm up, expectant.

I hesitate, glancing at the door. “Dorian, I shouldn’t stay. I have other clients.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Who, if I’m not mistaken, were reassigned?”

“Yes, but?—”

“No buts. Give me an hour, please?”

The way he says please dissolves my spine.

Defeated, I go back to my chair, snatch my keys from my bag, and toss them to him. He catches them effortlessly, already moving.

Dorian vanishes down the hall, reappearing minutes later with a satisfied look. “My driver is taking your car for a spin. He’s an expert at shaking a tail. Ned will know if anyone’s been following you.”

I blink. “Are all your employees ex-special forces?”

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous. Some of them were in the CIA.”

I want to keep the banter flowing and the mood light, but my brain is throwing every red flag it can find at me.

Dorian notices instantly. “Uh-oh. Am I in trouble? What’d I do?”

“Nothing, but… can we talk?”

He tilts his head, studying me. “Yeah, but not here.”

He slides his hands in his jeans pockets and guides me to what can only be described as a cozier alternative to the main living room.

With oversized armchairs, a deep-set couch, and a central coffee table stacked high with books about musicians, it feels less of a showroom and more like a private space.

Dorian gestures to the couch, and we sit side by side but facing each other.

“What is it?” he asks.

“It’s about Billie.” Gosh, we spend more time discussing her than we do us, but I need to get my doubts off my chest.

“Billie. Of course.” Dorian shifts, that hardness returning to his posture. “What about her?”

I look in his beautiful, expressive eyes, willing myself to be brave. “The way she makes you angry… it’s visceral. And the only people who have that power over us are the ones we love…” I pause, holding his gaze. “Are you… is there any part of you that’s still in love with her?”

His knees bounce as he stares past me. Dorian presses his lips together, and I fear he won’t answer. But then, he rubs a hand over his jaw. “Josie, come on.” He shakes his head. “That’s not—” He stops himself. “You think I want that?”

“Wanting it and feeling it aren’t the same thing.”

His fingers tap restlessly against his knee, a quick, uneven rhythm.

“She broke me. I should hate her.” His voice drops and becomes conflicted, like he’s fighting with himself.

“But on some level…” He trails off, then looks at me, guilt heavy in his eyes.

“I can’t pretend Billie didn’t matter once.

That she didn’t shape parts of me.” His gaze is steadier now, less torn.

“She is my past, Josie. A messy, complicated past that I can’t erase.

” He reaches for my hand. “But that’s all she is—past.”

“Are you sure? Because I can’t let myself fall for you if you aren’t over her.”