Sunlight poured through the tall glass windows of the Langford penthouse, casting golden streaks across the marble floor. Mira Langford stirred in her bed, groaning softly as she blinked open her eyes.
Her head was still foggy, her body heavy with sleep. Dressed in a short satin nightdress, the silky fabric clung to her figure like a second skin, barely covering the curve of her thighs and accentuating the smooth glow of her warm-toned skin.
She dragged herself from the bed, padding barefoot into the open kitchen, her tousled hair falling over her bare shoulders. She reached for a glass, filled it with cold water, and brought it to her lips—slowly sipping, savoring the cool rush.
That's when she heard it—a low, rhythmic grunt from the living room.
She turned, confused, and walked quietly toward the sound.
There, framed by the morning light like some kind of living sculpture, was Jerry Kingston.
Doing pull-ups.
Her muscled arms flexed effortlessly as she rose and dropped with perfect control, the sleeveless tank she wore clinging to every sharp angle of her broad back and thick shoulders. Each motion made the fabric ride up just a little, flashing taut abs and that sculpted waist.
Mira froze.
She swallowed hard, her mouth dry despite the water. Her sleepy mind stalled as she watched in silence, heat rising up her neck and pooling in her cheeks. Jerry looked like she had stepped out of a dream—a very specific kind of dream Mira was definitely not ready to admit she'd had.
Then Jerry turned.
Her damp hair clung to her neck, a light sheen of sweat glistening on her tanned skin. When her eyes met Mira's, she paused mid-rep and dropped down gracefully.
"Mornin', Miss Langford," she said with a grin. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"I—uh—I wasn't," Mira muttered, backing away slightly.
But the floor had other plans.
A small puddle from her spilled water glass caught her off guard. Her foot slipped—and she gasped as her arms flailed for balance.
In an instant, Jerry caught her.
Strong hands wrapped around her wrists, pulling her safely against a broad chest. Mira's hands instinctively grabbed Jerry's shoulders for support—hard, warm, solid muscle beneath her palms.
They were close. Too close.
Their faces were just inches apart. Mira could feel Jerry's breath against her cheek, warm and slow. Her lips parted slightly, breath hitching as she looked up.
"You alright?" Jerry asked, voice low, eyes scanning her face.
Mira tried to pull away, but winced. Her ankle had twisted in the fall.
Jerry's grin widened. "You're so clumsy in the morning, Mrs. Kingston."
Mira's eyes widened in horror. "I am not Mrs. Kingston!"
Jerry raised a teasing brow. "Yet. But if you don't reject me again soon, I'm calling you that all day."
"You—! Ugh! You're infuriating," Mira said, trying to hide her smile.
Jerry lifted her effortlessly, bridal style, and walked toward the couch.
"Don't move for a minute. Let me check your foot."
Mira flushed deeper. "You didn't have to carry me!"
"I wanted to." Jerry smirked, gently placing her down. "Besides… it's cute when you pretend you're not flustered."
Mira covered her face with her hands, but peeked through her fingers, unable to stop the soft smile tugging at her lips.
Jerry… was trouble. Gorgeous, dangerous, ridiculously charming trouble.
And Mira wasn't sure she wanted to escape.
Mira's heart thudded so loud it echoed in her ears.
She was still gripping Jerry's shoulders, fingers sinking into the firm muscle like it was the only thing tethering her to earth. Their faces—mere inches apart. Jerry's smirk grew deeper, eyes teasing but locked on her like a lion enjoying the chase.
"You're clumsy, Mrs. Kingston," Jerry whispered, her voice like velvet laced with fire.
"I—I'm not clumsy," Mira stammered, breathless. "You startled me."
Jerry raised a brow, still holding her by the waist as if letting go wasn't even an option. "Is that so? Then maybe I should stop walking around shirtless, huh?"
Mira's face burned redder. Jerry wasn't shirtless—but in that tight black sleeveless tank, with sweat glistening on her collarbone and arms flexed from pullups, she might as well have been.
"You…" Mira started but couldn't finish. Her tongue tangled with nerves.
Then, Jerry's smirk turned soft. "Your ankle," she murmured, kneeling down smoothly, careful not to let Mira fall again. She gently lifted Mira's foot onto her thigh, examining it.
"I think it's just a twist," she said. "Nothing broken. I'll grab ice."
"No, wait," Mira whispered, still dazed, still very aware of how warm Jerry's hands were around her skin. "I… I can't believe you're the same girl I rejected."
Jerry's smile faltered for a split second.
"You haven't even seen half of me yet, Mira Langford," she said as she stood, towering once again. "But when you do… you'll regret saying no."
Mira swallowed, hard.
Jerry scooped her up without warning—bridal style—and carried her toward the living room like it was nothing. Mira yelped. "Jerry!"
"You twisted your ankle. Doctor Kingston's orders," she teased, placing Mira gently on the couch. Their eyes locked. The tension was rising again.
"You're impossible," Mira muttered, trying to look away.
"And you're dangerously cute in that nightdress," Jerry replied, standing tall with that knowing, flirty grin.
"Don't wear that around me if you want to stay out of trouble."
Mira opened her mouth to argue, but her throat dried up. She watched Jerry walk away—broad shoulders flexing, towel thrown around her neck, sweat trailing down her back.
God, this woman would be the death of her.
Mira stood at the edge of the kitchen in soft disbelief, her heels clicking lightly against the floor as her eyes devoured the sight in front of her.
Jerry Kingston, in a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the veins on her forearms, dark slacks hugging her form in all the right places, and a pair of sharp black glasses resting low on her nose. Her freshly styled wolf-cut hair, slightly tousled from her morning routine, made her look like she stepped straight out of a dream—or a very bold fantasy.
"Good morning, Miss Mira," Jerry said smoothly without looking up, as she placed the last piece of toast on the breakfast table. "You're right on time."
Mira blinked. "You... made breakfast?"
Jerry looked up then, her eyes scanning Mira from head to toe in her sleek office dress. "French breakfast. Thought I'd soften the Monday mood."
Mira sat slowly, trying not to let the heat rise to her cheeks. She lifted her fork and took a bite of the delicate crepe. "It's... good."
Jerry leaned a hand on the back of Mira's chair, close enough that Mira could smell her cologne. "And how's your foot, Mrs. Kingston?" she whispered near Mira's ear, that teasing glint in her voice.
Mira choked on the bite, coughing slightly. "Don't call me that."
"You said you'd let me if you didn't reject me next time," Jerry said with a shrug, pulling out her own chair but not sitting. "Technically, we're already living together, I cook for you, and I caught you in my arms like a knight in shining armor..."
Mira raised an eyebrow. "You're so full of yourself."
Jerry smirked. "Maybe. But I get the job done."
As she started to walk back to her room, Mira glanced at her retreating form. "Aren't you going to eat?"
Jerry paused at the door and turned halfway. "I don't eat breakfast, Miss Mira. I take protein in the mornings. Gym life." She winked. "You should try it. Builds stamina."
Mira groaned and rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she stabbed another bite of crepe. "God, she's going to kill me with that confidence."
From inside her room, Jerry's low voice echoed back teasingly, "Still calling me God, huh?"
Mira blushed harder and buried her face into her hands.