Scarlett
I’m still sweaty from mopping when I exit the staff corridor, fingers aching from clutching the damn brush too hard. All I want is five minutes to not think about hot, brooding tyrants who haunt my dreams and make me wake up soaked between the thighs.
Is that too much to ask?
Apparently, yes.
Because the moment I round the corner, Zane is there.
He’s leaning against the wall like some annoyingly hot statue, arms crossed, blond hair glinting under the lights, violet eyes doing that twinkling thing that makes my stomach act up.
“Hey, Red,” he greets with a grin. “You look like you survived another day of servitude.”
I roll my eyes. “Barely. I think I discovered a new kind of floor fungus.”
He chuckles. “Disgusting. You need medical wine and better company than the mop. Lucky
