Page 29 of This Life of Mine

Chapter nine

Lina

Istep out of the kitchen with an unintended smile already tugging at my lips from EJ’s messages—and at that exact moment, I notice him.

To my left, seated at one of our tables with the plush purple velvet chairs, is a figure that instantly catches my eye.

Holy shit. This has to be the guy.Mr. M.

He’s wearing a black button-down shirt with the sleeves casually rolled to his forearms. The fabric fits too well to be off the rack, tailored across broad shoulders and chest before tapering neatly at his waist. Black dress pants and polished loafers complete the look.

The whole ensemble radiates quiet confidence.

Very GQ.

As if sensing my stare, he lifts his gaze from the laptop.

The glasses come off easily, like they were never part of the look to begin with—just a practical tool he uses when he needs them. He rubs the bridge of his nose in a small absent-minded gesture that does entirely unfair things to my concentration.

Good heavens.

Without the glasses, his face carries a kind of effortless authority.

A strong jaw shadowed by the faintest hint of stubble. A mouth that rests in a neutral line, relaxed but controlled, as if every word is chosen carefully before it’s spoken. The kind of face that doesn’t need to raise its voice to command attention.

His eyes are a warm hazel-brown, almost honey-colored when the light catches them. Soft at first glance, but observant. Eyes that miss nothing and reveal even less.

Eyes that are studying me right now.

His dark hair is neatly trimmed at the sides and longer on top, subtle threads of silver woven through the black. Not enough to age him. Just enough to make him look distinguished—as though time merely brushed against him on its way by.

Even sitting, he seems impossibly large.

The rolled sleeves expose deeply tanned forearms marked by dark ink that disappears beneath the fabric. Tattoos winding where I can’t quite see them. His hands are large and strong, appearing capable of building something with care—or breaking it without effort.

The shirt conceals very little. Years of discipline are evident in every visible line of him. Broad shoulders. Powerful forearms. A chest that strains faintly against the fabric.

His long torso and sheer presence makes the chair beneath him appear too small.

I force myself to keep walking, reminding my feet how to behave, and my wide-open mouth to close, even as my mind lags a few beats behind my body.

As I reach Kay, she turns and catches me watching Mr. M.

I watch the moment as it clicks for her, the spark of an idea igniting behind her eyes.

Uh-oh.

“Hey,” she whispers, leaning in conspiratorially. “I’m about finished up here, but I realized I totally forgot to put in the last food order.” She pauses, adding in a muted voice, “ForMr. M.“ She points in his direction, carefully disguising the gesture like she’s sharing state secrets.

I glance over and catch Mr. M staring my way, curiosity flickering across his face. Curious in the way of someone who already knows he’s being discussed.

I offer a brief, polite smile—professional, contained—and refocus on Kay.

“What did he order?” I ask. “I can run to the kitchen and make it really fast.”

Oddly, my confidence comes undone in his presence, slipping through my fingers when I least expect it. If I can scurry back to the kitchen now, that would be great.

Her face falls. “Oh damn…” she groans, though there’s something suspiciously playful about it. “I can’t remember. Tonight must have fried my brain.”