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“Rhys Larsen.” His deep, gravelly voice rolled over me like a velvety caress. Now that he was closer, I spotted a thin scar slashing through his left eyebrow, adding a hint of menace to his dark good looks. Stubble darkened his jaw, and a hint of a tattoo peeked out from each sleeve of his shirt.
“I suggest you stop lookin’ at me like that, Princess,” I said, my voice lethally soft. “Unless you plan on doing something about it.” It was perhaps the most inappropriate thing I’d ever said to her and way out of the bounds of professionalism, but I was teetering on the edge of sanity.
The burn intensified. “Careful, Mr. Larsen, or I’ll think you actually like me.” His mouth curled into a grin. “Baby, we’re way beyond like.”
“I beg to differ. Tradition is the foundation of this country, this office, and your office. We cannot go about tearing it down willy-nilly. So no, I’m afraid I cannot bring the motion to the floor. No matter how many souvenir T-shirts they’re selling with Mr. Larsen’s face on them,” he added with a small sneer.