Page 5 of The Enforcer’s Obssession

My head is popping, my lips are moving, and I’m humming along to the song streaming, so deep into trimming, cutting, and editing them into smaller clips, that I don’t see or hear Rowdy, but I feel him. The shift in the air and the sudden, subtle scent of cedar and bergamot make me look up.

My breath hitches in my throat. Rowdy’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing a pair of dark blue athletic shorts.

And that’s it. Just shorts.

His thick, dark hair is slicked back, still wet from the shower, and drops of water glide slowly down his chest, tracing the sharp, carved lines of each dip of his sculpted abdomen. I stare, my god, do I stare. It’s impossible not to. The professionalism I’ve always strived for fades into the background for five long seconds while my brain scrambles to process the number of muscles in front of me. My eyes involuntarily track a bead of water as it slithers down his abs, dipping into the soft ridge where his shorts rest on his hips.

And then—because the universe is seriously testing my patience with some weird, twisted sense of humor—my gaze drifts an inch lower. The thin fabric he’s wearing leaves very little to the imagination. Rowdy shifts his weight, resting one hand on the edge of the counter. I swear I see a distinct pulse beneath the dark material.

Get it together, Jett.

I feel a sudden flood of heat rush up my neck, straight to my cheeks. I’ve maintained an ironclad rule my entire career: never mix business with pleasure. It’s my gospel, my boundary line, the one thing that keeps me sharp in an industry full of fragile egos. But looking at Rowdy right then, that rule feels like a string pulled tight, ready to snap.

“Hope I’m not distracting you from your work, sunshine.” His voice is a deep, husky rumble. Of course, he notices where my eyes froze, judging by the shit-eating grin tugging at the corner of his lips. His deep eyes are fixed on mine with a quiet, knowing amusement.

“It takes a lot more than a shirtless athlete to distract me, Bouchard.” I clear my throat, forcing my hands to remain steady as I click my touchpad to pause the video.

“Is that right?” He walks past me toward the refrigerator, his shoulder brushing close enough to mine that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. He opens the fridge door and pulls out a carton of spinach, ground turkey, and sweet potatoes. “Looks like you were doing something else.”

“Only analyzing lighting angles,” I lie smoothly, leaning back into my stool, and cross my arms over my chest. Somewhere along the way, my lower back started aching and made me plop my behind in the padded seat with a high back. “You happened to step into the frame.”

“Right.” He sets the ingredients on the counter before pulling a heavy cast-iron skillet out of the cabinet below. “Well, I’m making food. You want some, or are you going to watch me eat, too?”

“I’m good, thanks.” I scrunch my nose, trying to figure out what he’s going to make with the food he has set out. I tap my pen against my notebook in an attempt to pull the conversation back to familiar ground before my brain completely short-circuits. “While you’re cooking, can we go over the interview questions the team wants us to run through tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Rowdy grunts, setting the skillet on the stovetop. “As long as I can ask a question of my own.” He flops the ground meat into the pan, then moves to the pantry to pull out more ingredients.

“A question? You want to interview me?” I raise an eyebrow, surprised at this suggestion.

“Why not?” The meat sizzles. He pulls out another pot, measuring the water he needs to boil the rice. He turns his body slightly toward me, resting a hip against the counter. “You’ve been shadowing me all day, prying into my life, taking pictures of me. I think I’m entitled to one question, Jett.”

“Fair enough.” I drum the pads of my fingers against my laptop.

“How did you get into the whole social media gig? It’s not like you can go to college for a degree in making enforcers look friendly.” Rowdy tilts his head, his focused eyes searching my face.

“Well, it’s one of those things you kind of fall into,” I admit, my voice softening as I think back to how it all started. “It definitely wasn’t my original master plan.” I can’t help the small, genuine laugh that escapes my lips. I push my laptop to the side, lean my elbows on the counter, rest my chin in my hands, and look up at him.

“Yeah?” He turns his attention back to the stove, sautéing the meat, adding spices, and keeping his eyes on both tasks, his food and me.

“It started with my cousin, Toren. He was getting his name out there in the art industry, but he wanted to do it in a way where he could keep his identity hidden. Total ghost mode.”

“Hidden? Why?” Rowdy looks over his shoulder from where he’s still doing a few things at once, his dark brow furrowed with curiosity.

“Long story, but he lives in a small town. People talk, and when we posted one video, it blew up. Women went absolutely feral. He didn’t want strangers showing up on his property. The only problem with that is, we created a supply and demand. It took off, wildly. He had more commissioned pieces than he knew what to do with. I ran the behind-the-scenes strategy, building the suspense, curating his aesthetic to look cohesive, and lived in the shadow.”

“And people bought into it?” Rowdy pulls the rice off the heat, turns off the burner, and then throws the spinach in with the meat before adding the diced-up sweet potatoes to the mix as well.

“They went crazy for it. Before long, he started getting a flood of messages and emails—not just from his fans, but from brands and high-profile galleries. Everyone wanted to know the same thing: who’s running his account and filming it all?” I stand up and walk around the island. “Do you mind if I get a glass of water?”

“Help yourself. Bottles of water are in the fridge.” I once again scrunch up my nose. Water in plastic, the same plastic being recycled, except I’ve been to landfills, and it all lands in the exact same place. So, tell me, do they really recycle?

“Glasses?” I ask.

“To the right of the fridge.” I go about my task fridge while Rowdy plates his food, sets his plate next to my laptop, and grabs a fork. Meanwhile, I fill my glass with ice and water and return to my seat where he’s sitting right next to me.

“So, you took the hint.” Rowdy takes a bite of his food. There are six inches between us, too bad his effortless, commanding presence makes the space feel smaller.

“I created a business right then and there.” I nod, meeting his gaze while taking a sip of my water. “I bought a better camera, registered an LLC, and I’ve been doing it ever since. I took on independent clients, built a reputation for crisis management, and now it seems I’m into sports franchises. Like the Lonestars calling my cell when their star player needs some help.”