Rafe
Five hours into Adele’s work day at the lodge, and it’s worse than I imagined.
First came her scent, stealing into my office, snaking around my desk, filling my space. Sweet and subtle, with a bite. There are no windows in my small work space—my office could double as a safe room—and nowhere for the scent to escape to. I can only breathe it in, breath after decadent breath.
Next, the murmuring waves of her voice and laugh. The sound is low and a little bit smoky. And with it comes the final invasion: the image of Adele’s heart-shaped face, crowding out all other thoughts. It’s so easy to imagine her swaying into my office, pushing into my space. She’d be dressed with her usual casual elegance—in a skirt or a dress, something easy to push up and out of the way. Her soft, dark curls
