“I do apologise on behalf of Natalie Yang. She’s stuck in traffic in the tunnel, I believe. My name is Michael—” My words died right there, because the Mr Schroeder who walked in stopped me in my tracks. SAF stood there, staring at me. My SAF, the Sexy as Fuck, no-complications fuck-buddy who left my place this morning. But he looked different. Gone were the band T-shirts, skinny jeans, and trendy boots. Now he wore dark charcoal pants, Italian wool . . . Brioni, I was certain. His shirt was white, starched, and tailored just for his body. I’d never seen anything so gorgeous.
