When I raised my head to glare at James, my voice dripped with sarcasm. “My instincts tell me you’ve got a delusional disorder, and my head says narcissism—both in their final stages. Shall I check where to register you for treatment?”
Instead of being offended, his lips curled slightly, exuding that insufferable calm he always carried.
“Before diagnosing me, it might help your credibility if you put on your skirt first,” he said, his tone laced with mockery.
It hit me then—the full scope of my predicament. When he walked in, I’d been mid-motion, awkwardly peeling my skirt off with my backside in full view. To make matters worse, the torn fabric was still hanging around my knees, leaving my thighs exposed to the cold air.
Meanwhile, he stood there in his pristine suit, his ti
