I grab my phone and pull up Insta. Then I type in Nick’s handle—which I know from research, not because I’m a shameless stalker—and wait for his profile to load. When it finally pops up, there’s a new post.
With Oreo.
My heart melts—actually freaking melts—at the sight. And apparently I’m not alone. The picture has only been up for an hour, and it’s already got thousands of likes.
Because it’s the kind of picture that speaks directly to a woman’s ovaries.
Not mine, of course, but other, more available ovaries.
In the picture, Nick is sitting behind his desk (because of course he is), sleeves rolled up to reveal those powerful arms with the puppy napping in his lap. He’s giving the camera a boyish grin I’ve never seen before, one far removed from his usual smirk. He actually looks friendly.
No one could look at this picture and call him Hartless.
Even better, he used the hashtag.
Which just goes to show you can teach an old dog new tricks.
Not that Nick is old. Far from it. The only wrinkles on his face are tiny smile lines at the corner of his eyes. Lines that rarely see the light of day, since his smiles are few and far between.
But oh so worth the wait.
“Let me see what’s got that big-ass grin on your face,” Sofia says, making grabby hands at the phone.
I flip it around so she can see the pic, and she grabs the phone from my hands, pulling it in for a closer inspection.
“Damn, girl. I think you thawed the Ice King.” She fans herself with her free hand, and I resist the urge to join in. Because despite his faults, Nick is sexy. And for the first time since I’ve met him, he’s publicly let his guard down, just a tiny bit, so the world can see the softer side he normally keeps hidden under lock and key. “Ay, qué chulo! I didn’t think it was possible, but he’s even hotter when he’s not scowling.”
Tell me about it. The man has the world’s sexiest mouth.
“Thank God he’s not my boss.” She hands the phone back. “I’d be too busy staring—and by staring I mean drooling—to get any work done.”
“He’s not my boss.” The words flow automatically, but technically they’re true. Because it would be really inappropriate to be thinking of all the ways my boss could use his lips for the forces of good, right?
“That’s probably a good thing.” Sofia crosses her arms. “Because I’m starting to wonder if your project is the Valentine’s social or the billionaire bad boy.”
Her words strike a little too close to home, and my heart leaps into my throat. Still, I do my best to downplay the fact that I was just staring starry-eyed at a picture of Nick Hart like he’s my very own teen idol. “Very funny.”
“Who’s kidding? You two have been spending a lot of time together. You went on a date to a taco truck, which for you is practically a declaration of love. And you just bought him a Frenchie.” She shoots me the side-eye. “I know those dogs aren’t cheap.”
I roll my eyes. As if I could afford a Frenchie.
“First, it wasn’t a date. It was a business dinner. Believe it or not, I can tell the difference.” I think. “Second, I didn’t buy him a Frenchie. Miles did. If it were up to me, I’d have gone to the animal shelter and rescued an adorable little mutt, but Miles said it would take too long to process all the paperwork. He bought Oreo from a friend.” Or a friend of a friend. “Our relationship is strictly business. The time I spend with Nick is one hundred percent about my capstone project and helping Triada improve corporate culture. If, when I share my results, he and Miles see the value of adding an Organizational Behavioral Specialist to the org chart, I’ll consider it a bonus.”
One I desperately need to help pay off my student loans.
“Uh-huh.” Sofia chuckles under her breath. “Just keep telling yourself that.”
“I will, thank you very much.” Because no way is Nick Hart getting under my skin.
Chapter Twenty
Nick
I’ve been robbed.
My pulse throbs at my temple as I scan the penthouse foyer, taking in torn pillows and overturned plants. It’s total destruction. Dirt on the floor. Cracked planters. And is that one of my Italian leather loafers with the sole hanging loose?
Sonofabitch. Those shoes cost a fortune. What kind of monster destroys a man’s shoes?
