Oh my god, the painter. The client says something to me, the door closed behind her, but it takes me a moment to realize that she’s talking. I can’t drag myself away from the sight of his long legs mounting the ladder, putting his waist just above my eye level. I struggle to focus, working on autopilot, trying to take care of my client while ignoring the magnificent example of masculinity displayed not three feet away from my desk. The client leaves, and I try to drag my mind back to my work. I type up documents, working on motions and answers, but I can’t pretend I don’t know he’s right there.

I look up. Oh god, he’s watching me. Our eyes meet again, and like a frightened deer, I jerk my gaze away, keeping my eyes squarely on my computer monitor. I can feel him watching me now, though. It’s like his gaze paints my body with heat, scorching the exposed skin of my collar bone, running down the length of my neck into the valley between my breasts. I can only imagine the vantage point he must have out there, and I’m immediately self-conscious about showing so much cleavage. It’s really not that this is a boobie shirt, but most shirts become boobie shirts with a set like mine...