Claude Lockheart was dangerous. Period. I thought taking away his shirt would lessen his "weapons of distraction," but no—he simply upgraded. That man… now had the audacity to wear fitted button-down shirts, silk ties, and suit pants so sharp I swear they could slice my sanity in half.
Today, he was leaning against the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his tie loosened just enough to scream effortlessly sexy, and those glasses—when did he even start wearing glasses? Was he trying to cosplay as a professor now?
"Mio, you've been staring at me for five minutes." His lips curled into that wicked smirk. "Are you that impressed with your husband's new look?"
Husband, he said. As if I could forget that insane turn of events.
I huffed, crossing my arms. "Claude Lockheart, you're the one who's been strutting around here like you're in some seductive fashion show. Why are you dressed like you're about to give a lecture on how to ruin my life?"
