Cynthia stepped into the kitchen, heels clicking gently on the polished floor. She was dressed in a modest pastel blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt, her long hair neatly pinned up. A faint trace of floral perfume followed her movements, soft and feminine. Her eyes immediately scanned the room.
Mike stood there, shirt crumpled, lips slightly parted, collar askew, and no tie. He hadn’t even noticed her approach. Something was off. The room smelled like coffee but underneath it… something else lingered. Faint. Unmistakably sensual.
She frowned slightly, then shook it off. No. She wouldn’t think like that.
In her hand, she held his freshly polished shoes—something she’d woken up early to clean. She smiled, holding them up. “You forgot these,” she said, voice warm, eyes trying to meet
