I hated that Damon Cross had caught me staring.
It was humiliating enough that I had spent the previous night drinking his expensive wine, crying over a coward, and pouring my heart out to a violent black cat. Standing on the sunlit terrace in rumpled clothes while my boss—my husband—stood shirtless, slick with sweat, and completely unbothered, was an absolute exercise in emotional torture.
I forced my spine straight, adjusting my heavy glasses with cold, professional composure.
"I wasn't watching a show," I stated evenly. "I was evaluating."
Damon raised an dark eyebrow, drying his damp neck with a white towel. "Evaluating?"
"Whether your morning workout routine is as aggressively clinical as your management style."
A faint, almost imperceptible flick of warmth crossed his icy dark
