The night air was freezing, but Bridget was sweating. She stood outside the massive double doors of the most expensive penthouse in Tribeca, clutching a bag of groceries to her chest.

She pressed her trembling finger against the doorbell.

The heavy door clicked open automatically. There was no butler, no maid. Just a cavernous, hyper-modern living room bathed in dim, voice-activated lighting.

Bridget stepped inside. She kicked off her heels and slipped her feet into the only pair of guest slippers available-a pair of men's slides that were three sizes too big. She shuffled awkwardly across the polished concrete floor, feeling like a child playing dress-up.

A harsh, hacking cough echoed from the living room.

Jevon was slouched deep into a custom Italian leather sofa. He was wearing loose, dark grey sweatpants and a matching t-shirt. He had taken out his contacts and was wearing a pair of thin, gold-rimmed glasses. The glasses stripped away his corporate armor, making him look dangerously devastating.

Bridget noticed the faint red marks still lingering on his neck. The heavy stone of guilt dropped back into her stomach.

She walked over, gripping her hands tightly in front of her. "Mr. Rocha, I am so sorry again about this afternoon."

Jevon took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I almost died, Ms. Frank. And now I'm starving in my own home."

Bridget bit her lip so hard it hurt. "What do you want to eat? I can order from the best restaurant in the city. I'll pay for it."

Jevon's eyes darkened. He leaned forward, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over her. "I told you. I don't trust outside food, You cook."

Bridget's face flushed. "Mr. Rocha, my cooking skills max out at microwaving frozen pizza."

Jevon pointed a long finger toward the massive, open-concept kitchen. "Boil some pasta. Now."

Crushed by the weight of her guilt and his absolute authority, Bridget shuffled toward the kitchen. The appliances looked like they belonged on a spaceship. She opened the massive double-door refrigerator and stared blankly at the perfectly organized rows of organic, high-end ingredients.

She found a box of artisanal pasta. She turned to the industrial gas stove and twisted a knob. A massive burst of blue flame shot up, nearly singeing her eyelashes. She yelped and jumped back.

From the sofa, Jevon rested his chin on his hand. His dark eyes tracked her every move. Watching her panic over the stove, the coldness in his chest melted entirely. The corners of his mouth twitched upward into a soft, hidden smile.

Bridget spun around, frantically looking for a pot. She grabbed a heavy bone-china soup pot from the drying rack. Her hands were slick with nervous sweat. The pot slipped from her grip.

It hit the floor with a deafening crash, shattering into dozens of sharp, jagged pieces.

Bridget let out a sharp cry. She immediately dropped to her knees, her hands reaching out to gather the broken shards.

Jevon's face hardened instantly. He vaulted over the back of the sofa and sprinted across the room.

"Don't touch it!" he roared.

He grabbed her wrists, hauling her up from the floor with terrifying speed. His grip was tight, his chest heaving as he checked her palms for blood.

Bridget flinched at his yelling. The stress of the day finally broke her. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over her cheeks. "I'm sorry! I ruin everything!"

Seeing her tears, the rage drained out of Jevon's body. He let out a heavy sigh, his thumbs instinctively brushing over her pulse points.

He guided her to a high stool at the kitchen island and pressed her down by her shoulders. "Sit. Do not move."

The billionaire CEO rolled up the sleeves of his sweatpants. He grabbed a broom and dustpan, sweeping up the shattered china with practiced efficiency.

When the floor was clean, Jevon walked over to the sink, washed his hands, and picked up a heavy chef's knife. He looked at Bridget, his eyes intense.

"I'll cook," he stated.

Bridget sat frozen on the high stool, her eyes wide as she watched Jevon work. He moved around the kitchen with the fluid, precise grace of a Michelin-starred chef. He chopped fresh basil with terrifying speed, the blade a blur against the cutting board.

He tossed a slab of butter and minced garlic into a hot pan. The rich, savory aroma exploded into the air. Bridget's stomach, empty since the morning, let out a loud, embarrassing growl.

Jevon's hand paused over the stove. A smirk played on his lips, though he kept his back to her to hide it.

He reached up to the highest cabinet to grab a jar of black truffle paste. As his fingers wrapped around the glass, the muscles in his arm suddenly gave out-a lingering side effect of the massive dose of epinephrine he had taken hours ago.

The heavy glass jar slipped from his grasp.

Bridget saw it falling. Without thinking, she lunged off the stool, her hands shooting out to catch the jar before it shattered.

She managed to grab the truffle paste, but her elbow slammed hard into a tall glass bottle of organic ketchup sitting on the counter. The bottle tipped over. The cap popped off, and a thick stream of bright red ketchup splashed directly onto the front of Bridget's crisp white blouse.

Bridget looked down at the massive red stain spreading across her chest. She closed her eyes, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

Jevon cursed under his breath. He turned off the stove and grabbed her wrist, pulling her out of the kitchen. He dragged her down the hall and shoved her into the massive guest bathroom.

"Take it off and wash it right now, or the stain will set," he ordered.

Bridget clutched the doorframe, her face burning."No! I didn't bring any clothes!"

Jevon stared at her for a second. He turned around, walked into his master bedroom, and came back holding a brand-new, folded white dress shirt. He shoved it into her hands.

"Put this on. If you don't, I will come in there and take your blouse off myself."

Bridget slammed the bathroom door and locked it. Her hands shook as she unbuttoned her ruined blouse. She pulled Jevon's shirt over her head. The fabric was incredibly soft, but it was massive. The hem fell halfway down her thighs, making it look like a short dress. Worse, the collar smelled exactly like him-that intoxicating mix of cedarwood and heat.

She turned on the sink and started aggressively scrubbing her blouse under the cold water.

Suddenly, the smart home intercom on the wall chimed softly. Jevon glanced at the screen, his expression instantly darkening as he saw the feed from the private elevator lobby. With a heavy sigh of irritation, he tapped a button to unlock the door. A moment later, the heavy door swung open.

"Jervin! Open the door!" A loud and excited voice echoed in the apartment

Zane Sterling, Hollywood's biggest action star, strutted into the living room wearing dark sunglasses and a baseball cap. He kicked off his shoes, complaining loudly about the paparazzi chasing him from LA to New York.

Jevon walked out of the kitchen, holding two plates of steaming truffle pasta. His face was a mask of pure, murderous rage.

"Why didn't you knock?" Jevon snarled.

Zane smirked, tapping his phone. "Dude, you took forever to open up. I'm being chased by vultures out there."

At that exact moment, the guest bathroom door clicked open.

Bridget stepped out. Her legs were bare. She was wearing Jevon's oversized white shirt, clutching her wet, I really can't tell. She looked up and froze.

The living room went dead silent.

Zane slowly pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. His jaw dropped. His eyes darted from Bridget's bare legs to Jevon's furious face.

Bridget recognized the movie star instantly. The blood rushed to her head so fast she felt dizzy. She took a panicked step backward.

"Holy shit," Zane breathed out, a massive, shit-eating grin spreading across his face. "Jevon, you dark horse. Who is this?"

Jevon slammed the plates onto the dining table. He crossed the room in three strides, planting his massive body directly in front of Bridget, completely blocking Zane's view of her legs.

"Zane. Shut your mouth," Jevon growled, the warning in his voice absolute.

Bridget peeked out from behind Jevon's broad back, her face scarlet. "I-I just spilled ketchup on my shirt!"

Zane leaned to the side to look at her, winking blatantly. "Sure you did, sweetheart. I totally believe you."

Zane slowly circled the living room, his eyes raking over Bridget with unapologetic amusement.

Bridget gripped the hem of the oversized shirt, pulling it down as far as it would go. "Mr. Sterling, please, it's a misunderstanding. I am just an employee."

Jevon's patience snapped. He grabbed Zane by the collar of his expensive leather jacket and shoved him toward the entryway. "Get out."

Zane threw his hands up in mock surrender, laughing. "An employee? Really? Since when do Rocha employees wear the CEO's custom Tom Ford shirts with no pants on?"

Jevon's mind raced. He couldn't let Zane scare her off, but he couldn't tell the truth either. He needed an excuse that explained her presence in his private sanctuary.

"She's working on a highly confidential project directly for me," Jevon lied smoothly, his voice flat and cold. "The data is sensitive, so she's reporting here, after hours."

Zane stopped laughing. He looked at the two plates of perfectly plated truffle pasta on the table. He walked over, picked up a fork, and took a bite. He chewed slowly, his eyes widening in exaggerated surprise.

"Wow," Zane said, turning to Bridget. "You must be working on a very appetizing project. You're a culinary genius, Ms. Confidential."

Bridget's face burned so hot she thought she might pass out. She knew Zane knew Jevon cooked it. She gave a stiff, humiliated nod.

Jevon glared at Zane. He walked into his bedroom and returned with a pair of grey sweatpants. He shoved them into Bridget's hands. "Go put these on."

Bridget grabbed the pants and practically sprinted back to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, Bridget sat stiffly at the far end of the long dining table, wearing the baggy sweatpants. She kept her eyes glued to her plate, mechanically twirling the pasta around her fork.

Jevon sat at the head of the table. Zane pulled out the chair right next to Bridget and sat down, ignoring Jevon's death glare.

Zane poured himself a glass of red wine and leaned toward Bridget. "So, Ms. Frank. How old are you? Where are you from? What department do you actually work in?"

Bridget swallowed hard. She answered his rapid-fire questions in a tiny, nervous voice, feeling like she was under interrogation.

Jevon slammed his silver fork down onto his plate. The loud clatter echoed in the room. "Zane. Enough."

Zane ignored him completely. He took a sip of wine and dropped the bomb. "A beautiful girl like you must have a great boyfriend. What does he do?"

The air in the room instantly evaporated. Jevon's fingers clamped around the stem of his wine glass so hard the crystal groaned. His dark eyes locked onto Bridget's face, waiting.

Bridget's chest tightened. The image of Jacob and Chloe flashed in her mind, sending a fresh wave of nausea through her.

"I'm single," she said quietly, staring at her lap.

Jevon's rigid jawline instantly relaxed. A dark, triumphant heat flared in his eyes.

Zane caught the micro-expression on his best friend's face. He immediately leaned in closer to Bridget. "Single? New York men are blind. You know, Jevon here is single too. And he is incredibly loyal."

Bridget frowned, completely missing the subtext. She thought Zane was just being an obnoxious Hollywood wingman. She desperately wanted to change the subject.

"How is the filming for your new action movie going?" she asked.

Zane's eyes lit up. He started talking animatedly, waving his hands around to describe a stunt sequence, completely monopolizing Bridget's attention.

Jevon watched them laugh together. A violent surge of jealousy clawed at his chest. He stretched his long leg out under the table and kicked Zane's shin with brutal force.

Zane gasped, choking on his wine. He glared at Jevon, rubbing his leg under the table.

Jewen calmly ate his pasta"Your agent called me, Zane. He needs to speak with you immediately."

Bridget sensed the sudden hostility. She quickly put her fork down. "I'm full. I'll clean up the kitchen."

"Sit down," Jevon commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. He stood up, towering over the table. He looked at Zane. "My office. Now."

Zane winked at Bridget, stood up, and followed Jevon down the dark hallway toward the cigar room.