“He is that,” she says, her voice grudging, her gaze shifting to her lap.
“We have the chance to do something extraordinary. I don’t want to screw it up with personal complications.”
Neevah comes out running. She left her natural hair free today, and the breeze tosses the textured nimbus cloud around her face. Her body is toned and firm, not thin. There’s a ripeness to her, and she moves with a dancer’s easy grace; there’s a natural sensuality in the swing of her hips and arms. A confidence in her stride. I don’t usually allow myself to look at her much in case I look too long and my dick ever gets hard. There’s no coming back from that.
But I look now.
“Hmmm,” Verity huffs, tipping her head toward the window and giving me a knowing glance. “Speaking of making things personal.”
I shoot Verity one of my best glares.
“That doesn’t work on me, boss,” she says. “You got this reputation for being all mean and broody and artistic. I know your secret.”
“Oh, you do?” I cock a brow at her, genuinely curious. “And what’s that?”
“I saw The Magic Hour. You’re a mama’s boy, and they’re all bark, no bite.”
“Oh, I bite. Let this shit with Monk affect my movie, you’ll feel it.”
“Fair enough.” Verity glances back to Neevah who has almost reached the car. “Make sure you heed your own advice.”