Calla’s POV
Rhys had started leaving his jacket off in the evenings sometime in the second week, and it was genuinely, measurably ruining my concentration. Calla herself secretly admired his arms, his strong, healthy, muscular body. Rhys was hot — and yet a perfect gentleman.
Tonight he was reading something with a blue spine that he’d carried down from the third-floor shelves two days ago and hadn’t put back yet. I was at the other end of the room at the writing desk, with a file open in front of me that I was supposed to be cross-referencing against the ledger notes, and instead I had been staring at the same column of figures for twenty-two minutes and drawing on the back of an envelope.
I noticed what I was doing and didn’t stop.
It had been a long time since I’d drawn anything. Ye
