"Yes, ma’am." Reese answered.

"Oh, thank God! Come in, come in!" she said, tugging him inside.

Sylvia practically skipped toward the kitchen, the hem of the shirt brushing the back of her legs. "Can I get you anything? Coffee?"

"No, ma’am."

"Tea?" she pushed again, opening a cabinet just to have something to do with her hands.

"No, ma’am," Reese repeated.

"Oh for fuck’s sake, Reese!" Sylvia turned sharply, one hand on her hip.

"I’m fine, Miss Kane. But are you okay?" His gaze lingered on her face. She looked wired. Not drunk—he’d been with her all day, she hadn’t had a drop of alcohol.

"Never been better. Water. I’ll get you water."

Sylvia said. She practically darted toward the counter.

She yanked a glass from the rack, filled it from the water dispenser. "So who does the number belong to?"

"Evans Everest."

"What?" She spun so fast that the water splashed out in an arc, hitting Reese square in the chest before cascading downward. The sharp intake of his breath echoed through the kitchen.

"Oh, hell!" Sylvia gasped. "I—shit, I’m so sorry!"

The cold water soaked straight through his shirt, darkening it, tracing the sculpted lines of his torso. Her gaze flicked down. The water hadn’t just hit his chest; it had run all the way down the front of his trousers.

"Oh my God, I’m an idiot." She dropped the empty glass back onto the island with a clink, snatched the nearest towel, and hurried toward him.

"Miss Kane—" Reese began, but she was already pressing the towel to his front, blotting at the damp fabric in short, panicked motions.

"I got it, I got it!" she insisted. "Just—stand still, I can fix this."

The towel moved lower.

Reese froze, every muscle in his body locking tight. "Miss Kane."

She didn’t stop. "I said I’ve got it, just hold still!"

"Miss Kane," Reese said again, more strained this time.

"What?" she asked absently, still dabbing.

He swallowed hard. "Stop."

When she finally looked up, her gaze collided with his—and that’s when she saw it. The subtle shift in his breathing. The muscle flexing along his jaw. The undeniable, involuntary reaction pressing against the damp front of his trousers.

Sylvia’s lips parted in shock.

Reese cursed under his breath, snatched the towel from her hand, and stepped back quickly, keeping the towel strategically low. "I’ll... handle it," he muttered.

"Oh my God," Sylvia whispered. "Did you just—"

"No," Reese cut in swiftly.

"Reese," she said, biting back a grin.

He groaned. "Miss Kane."

"You got a boner,"

"It’s a biological reaction, not a declaration of intent."

"Oh, sure," she teased, tilting her head. "So, the water just turned you on?"

"Miss Kane? Back to the issue." Reese said, making no move to hide his erection. He stood tall and unflinching, his posture straight and militant, the defined lines of his shoulders cutting a silhouette that could make a nun think sinful thoughts.

Sylvia blinked, trying to shake the sudden heat that flooded her face. She needed to focus. "What do you mean Evans Everest?" she demanded. Her mind raced. Evans Everest.

"The number belongs to him." His gaze stayed on her face.

"Oh wow." Evans Everest—the Evans Everest—was the one who had called about Ivy? Her mind spun in a dozen directions at once. What was Ivy doing with him? The thought didn’t sit right.

Meanwhile, Reese dabbed at his clothes. He tugged his damp shirt out of his pants and used the towel to pat his lower belly where the water had soaked through.

Sylvia caught the motion—caught the hint of skin, the taut line of muscle beneath it—and suddenly her throat was dry. The man was carved and completely oblivious to how dangerous that was for her sanity.

"Can I keep this?" he asked, lifting the towel slightly, breaking her trance.

Her eyes flicked back up to his, but not before she’d had one more traitorous glance downward. "What do you want with Mr. Everest?" Reese asked.

"I don’t know yet," she admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as if that would make her feel more composed. "But I need you to take the day off tomorrow." She said it briskly, as if giving orders might restore her sense of control.

"Mr. Kane gives me my days off."

"Well," Sylvia said sweetly, arching a brow, "I will not be needing you tomorrow."

"Doesn’t matter," he replied simply. "I will be here still."

She should have expected that. Reese was practically Winn’s shadow. But the stubbornness in his tone made her lips twitch.

Sylvia decided, perhaps foolishly, to have some fun with him. She didn’t know why—maybe it was the thrill of finally having a lead on Ivy, or maybe it was the caffeine still thrumming through her veins from her fourth cup of espresso.

And now here was Reese, with his guard down and his shirt half open, practically begging to be teased.

"Do you have a thing for me, Reese?" Sylvia asked, her voice dripping with mischief as her eyes drifted deliberately downward—to where his earlier arousal was only just beginning to subside.

The way she said it was sinful, teasing in that delicate, dangerous way that could unmake a man without her even touching him. Her gaze lingered, tracing the outline of his belt.

Reese didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Only his Adam’s apple betrayed him as it dipped in a hard swallow. "No, ma’am," he said. His military composure cracked just a little.

Sylvia smiled—a small, knowing curve of her lips that said you’re lying and we both know it. "I beg to differ," she murmured. Her eyes dipped again, this time more boldly, and she gestured with a tilt of her chin toward his pants. "That does not look like ’no.’"

Reese’s jaw tightened. He took a measured breath through his nose and said with excruciating calm, "It is a normal masculine response, ma’am. Any man would respond the same way. It’s nothing to be ashamed of."