Focus, Grayson.
Maintain professional detachment.
You're observing, not ogling.
There's a distinction.
She finally seems to register my continued presence, gaze lifting to find me still relaxed against the wall, clearly content to remain exactly where I am.
"Like what you see?" Her question carries playful challenge, confidence evident in the particular tilt of her head.
Always.
Absolutely always.
But saying that would reveal too much too quickly.
"Most definitely," I respond with calculated honesty, letting some of my attraction show through my medical professional mask. "Though I'd prefer you covered in flour and bent over that counter, but that would be inappropriate for a public setting."
Direct.
Extremely direct.
Probably should have filtered that thought.
The effect is immediate and spectacular—her entire face floods with color, red spreading from cheeks down her neck, visible even against her freckled skin.
A group of Omegas heading toward the exit squeal audibly, clearly having overheard my comment, their giggles and whispered commentary making Wendolyn's blush intensify to truly impressive levels.
"You're being too direct!" She attempts a stern reprimand, but the breathlessness in her voice undermines any authority. "Can't just say things like that where people can hear!"
Can't I, though?
I push off the wall, moving toward her with deliberate slowness, enjoying the way her eyes track my approach with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness.
"I've always been direct," I observe mildly, closing the distance until I'm standing close enough to appreciate her scent—vanilla and wildflowers with an undertone of arousal she's probably trying to hide. "But I can attempt subtlety if it makes you more comfortable."
Not actually planning to be subtle.
Subtlety is overrated.
Especially when we're discussing fantasies involving flour and compromising positions.
I reach past her to examine the remaining ingredients, using proximity as an excuse to invade her space, to make her hyper-aware of my presence.
"What do you want to make with these materials?" Practical question, delivered in a tone that suggests I'm thinking about activities unrelated to baking.
She clears her throat—an obvious attempt to regain composure that's definitely slipping.
"Cookies. They're fastest option, which means we won't spend excessive time here while everyone waits."
Rushing.
Still operating under the assumption that time is limited, that we need to hurry, that efficiency is a priority.
Gregory's programming runs deep.
I frown, disliking the implication that she's still governed by constraints that no longer exist.
