Cleo’s POV
I stretched my arms high above my head, a low groan escaping my lips as I rubbed the stiff muscles at the base of my neck. The inevitable ache of a night spent sleeping on a futon in a fire station was finally catching up with me.
It was Sunday morning. The fluorescent lights in the corridor outside buzzed faintly, but Kyle’s private office was bathed in the soft, warm glow of the desk lamp.
The heavy door clicked open, and Kyle quietly entered. He had swapped his uniform t-shirt for a fitted grey vest that clung perfectly to the broad, chiselled lines of his chest. In his hands, he carried two steaming ceramic coffee cups.
"Morning, sleepyhead," he smiled, his jade-green eyes softening the second they landed on me. He walked over, set the cups down on the mahogany desk, and
