She carried a silver tray with a bottle of San Pellegrino—sparkling, of course. Tap water was for the help, and we weren't the help. But I barely registered the water.
She was… a fucking masterpiece.
Late twenties, maybe thirty. A stunning mix of ethnicities that gave her light brown skin and features both delicate and strong enough to cut glass.
Her hair was a wild cloud of natural curls pulled into a high ponytail that bounced with every step. Her body was a mathematical impossibility—curves so obscene they made the word 'hourglass' feel inadequate, with an athletic musculature visible through a professional dress that managed to be both office-appropriate and a declaration of pure, unadulterated sin.
One of Catherine's girls. No question. The advance scout, sent to get a preliminary read on the new asset.
