ROMANCE | ENEMIES TO LOVERS | SEX

Shirt half-buttoned. Smug tilt to his mouth. Eyes that said trouble before he opened his fucking mouth to confirm it.

"Got your text," he said, voice low and casual, like I'd invited him over for tea and not an apology he owed me five weeks ago.

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Funny. I don't remember texting Satan."

"Autocorrect, maybe." His grin widened. "Or maybe you just missed me."

I didn't. Not really. Except I kind of did.

Micah Vale had that effect. Smart mouth, faster hands, and the kind of arrogance you wanted to slap off his face with your lips.

Unfortunately, he was also the guy who'd stolen a client from my firm, thrown a smug smile over his shoulder, and said, "Don't take it personally, sweetheart. I just play to win."

And I had. Taken it personally.

"Why are you here?" I asked, voice flat, fingers twitching to either slam the door or pull him in. I hadn't decided which yet.

"Because you left this at my place." He held up my leather notebook. The one with my firm's pitch notes. The one I'd accused him of stealing three weeks ago in a blaze of professional fury and maybe a tiny bit of public shouting.

I snatched it from his hand. "I should call HR."

"You're not my HR."

"Pity," I said. "I'd love to fire you."

"You'd love to do something to me," he said, stepping inside like I'd invited him.

I didn't stop him.

Micah's presence filled the room fast — like heat. Like a storm moving in on bare skin.

He looked around my apartment, eyes dragging over bookshelves, the messy pile of files on my table, the blazer I'd peeled off a half-hour ago after screaming into a pillow about him.

Then his gaze landed on me again.

"Nice place," he said. "Didn't peg you for minimalist rage chic."

"Didn't peg you for literate."

He smiled like I'd kissed him. "God, I missed this."

I hated that I smiled back. Just barely. But he caught it. Of course he did.

"You're still mad," he said, voice dipping lower.

"Furious."

"Wanna hit me?"

"Absolutely."

"Before or after you let me make it up to you?"

I stepped in close. Inches away. "You think you can fix things with a smirk and a half-assed apology?"

"I haven't apologized yet."

"I noticed."

His breath was shallow now. So was mine.

"I was going to," he said, softer. "But you looked so hot when you were mad I kind of forgot how to speak."

"That's your excuse?"

"It's not an excuse. It's a reason. Big difference."

I shook my head, but didn't move. "You're insufferable."

He looked at my mouth. "You're stalling."

"For what?"

"For this."

He kissed me.

No warning. No gentle lean-in. Just hands on my hips, mouth on mine, and the kind of heat that made my knees forget how to be knees.

I kissed him back before my brain could object. Before it could say enemies, firm rivalry, betrayal, any of it.

Because the truth was, Micah Vale kissed like he argued — fast, unrelenting, all-in. And I hated how much I liked it.

He lifted me onto the kitchen counter without breaking contact.

I tugged at the collar of his shirt like it had personally offended me.

He groaned into my mouth, hands braced on either side of my thighs, pressing in like he belonged there.

"You're still a bastard," I whispered against his skin.

"You're still impossible."

Our mouths crashed again. It wasn't soft. Wasn't polite.

It was bruising, breathless, wild.

His hand found the edge of my shirt, fingers skating over skin like he had every right. I arched into him, not caring how dangerous this was. How stupid.

Then his phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

Buzz.

He growled and pulled back, forehead pressed to mine. "Ignore it," I said, gripping his shirt.

"I want to," he said.

Buzz. Buzz.

"Who the hell keeps calling?" I snapped, half-drunk on him.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, checked the screen — and froze.

Everything changed in the way his jaw clenched.

"What?" I asked.

He didn't answer. Just stepped back, eyes scanning the screen like it had delivered bad news wrapped in blood.

"Micah."

He looked up. Guarded now. "I need to go."

"Why?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. "It's complicated."

"That's not an answer."

He ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't want you involved."

"In what?"

He paused. One beat. Two.

Then: "You're not the only one I stole that pitch from."

The air shifted. Heavy. Cold.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

He took a step back. "You should forget I was here."

"Micah."

He didn't listen. Just turned and walked out the door.

I stood there, heart thudding, skin flushed, mouth swollen, and no idea what the hell just happened.

Then I looked down.

The screen of his phone still lit up on the counter.

He'd left it behind.

And the name flashing on the screen?

Unknown Caller.

Followed by: "We have a problem. You weren't supposed to fall for her."

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