“Another morous morning in paradise,” I mutter, peeling my thighs off the leather seat.


    The dashboard thermometer reads 97 degrees as of 7 A.M., because Florida doesn’t believe in mercy.


    Up ahead, the neon sign for the Pavlov Industries Daycare Center flickers like a dying star in the muggy morning haze.


    My reflection in the ss door makes me wince—I look exactly how I feel after the red-eye from Vegas.


    Like a waterlogged roon. Like microwaved death.


    All I want is my bed and forty-eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. Instead, I get to go to work—which, for me, involves herding twenty bright-eyed, bushy-tailed children from activity to activity all day long.


    Joy, oh, joy.


    Inside, renovation chaos hits me full force. The employee daycare center is in the middle of a facelift. It’s badly needed, though whoever chose the end of summer to redo the faltering A/C needs a very stern talking-to.


    White sheets drape over tiny tables and chairs like discount ghosts. The usual scent of y-Doh and apple juice is buried under sawdust and fresh paint.


    “Morning, sunshine,” my best friend and fellow daycare employee Mara calls from the craft table where she’s setting out supplies. “You look like absolute hell.”


    Her dark curls are wilting in the heat. Above us, the AC’s death rattle echoes through the vents.


    “Thanks, Mar. You always know just what to say.”


    I dump my oversized bag behind the desk and copse into my chair. The cheap foam cushion exhales defeat.


    “What’s the temperature in here, a billion?”


    “Close. Maintenance says they’ll fix it next week.” She eyes me carefully. “How was Vegas? How’s Sydney?”


    The concern in her voice makes my throat tight. “She’s… Sydney. You know how she is.”


    What I don’t say: that my sister is still with Paul, the shady asshole twice her age.


    He bought her a diamond tennis bracelet while I was there, and she couldn’t stop touching it, like it was some kind of talisman.


    She wouldn’t meet my eyes when I asked if she was happy.


    I shudder and blink the memory away. Thest thing I need is to relive our fight about my ex, one of Paul’s friends. Sydney thinks I should “hear him out” after he showed up at her ce during my visit.


    As if two years of maniption and gaslighting weren’t enough of a hearing.


    Mara nods, understanding all the things I’m not saying. That’s what I love about her.


    “Well, wee back to the swamp,” she says, gesturing around the half-demolished room. “Renovations are running behind, shocking absolutely no one.”


    “Is there any good news?” I ask hopefully.


    “Nope. But there is coffee.” She slides a paper cup across the desk with an apologetic smile.


    “You’re an angel.”


    I gulp it down, not caring that it scorches my tongue. Between the heat, the renovation noise, and Sydney’s rtionship advice, I need all the chemical courage I can get.


    “At least someone recognizes it,” Mara agrees sagely.


    A ding from the front door makes us both jump.


    I nearly spill the nuclear-grade coffee down my shirt. Because that’s exactly what this morning needs: third-degree burns to match my emotional scarring.


    And thus, the day begins.


    Kids start arriving, and I slip into work mode, greeting parents and helping little ones get settled.


    By snack time, sweat trickles down my spine, and my caffeine high has devolved into a headache that throbs behind my left eye.


    I’m arranging juice boxes and crackers when Chloe Morris appears at my elbow, her brown eyes wide beneath a fringe of dark bangs.


    “Miss Palmer, can we y dress-up princesses after snack? Please?”


    I should say no. Every cell in my body is screaming for a nap, not princess ytime.


    “Today’s not the best day, sweetie,” I begin, but then her face falls, and I remember what Mara told me yesterday over text—Chloe’s parents’ divorce was finalized this week, and her dad missed his visitation.


    “It’s almost my birthday,” she adds softly, twisting the hem of her shirt. “I’m going to be four.”


    My resolve crumbles like a sandcastle at high tide.


    When I was Chloe’s age, fairytales were my escape hatch from reality. Beauty and the Beast was my lifeline—I watched that VHS tape while Mom worked thete shift at Caesar’s Pce until it literally wore out.


    The memory of finding it broken in the VCR still makes my chest ache.


    “Okay,” I hear myself say. “But just for a little while.”


    “Yay!” Her face lights up like someone flipped a switch. “You’re more beautiful than Princess Belle!”


    Argh, this little emotional terrorist knows just what buttons to push. I couldn’t back out even if I wanted to.


    Mara catches my eye across the room, dramatically wiping away an imaginary tear and mouthing “softie.”


    I stick my tongue out at her, which sets Chloe off in a cascade of giggles that makes the whole thing worth it.


    As I help her arrange the stic tea set, the gurgling A/C ruckus fades into white noise. Just for a moment, I let myself believe in magic again.


    In possibility.


    In happy endings.


    Chloe drags me to the dress-up corner. She retrieves her favorite yellow Belle dress, and I reluctantly pull out the adult version we keep for teachers.


    It’s ridiculous—some polyester nightmare donated by a parent—and as I step into it, I’m reminded that whoever designed it clearly had a twelve-year-old in mind, not a woman with actual curves.


    It’s a strapless, size Eff You, with stic beads that dig into my hipbones.


    “You have to twirl,” Chloe instructs, demonstrating with her arms out. “Fancy princess twirls!”


    I oblige, even as the cheap fabric strains across my chest. The sleeves don’t even reach my elbows.


    But Chloe’s delight makes it worth it, her giggle like wind chimes as she spins alongside me.


    “More! Bigger twirls!” she demands, and Iply, despite the warning bells in my head.


    Faster we go.


    Faster.


    Faster.


    We’re lost in our royal spinning when disaster strikes. On one wild revolution, my elbow catches the edge of the tea set.


    There’s a suspended moment—juice boxes airborne, crackers floating like confetti—before gravity takes over.


    I lunge to catch Chloe as she falls, and we go down together in a sticky, crumb-covered heap.


    Apple juice drenches us both, though I’ve taken the brunt of it. It soaks through the yellow costume and sters my hair to my face.


    Chloe’s more startled than hurt, but her birthday dress is a casualty.


    Mara appears above us, hand covering her mouth. For a second, I think she’s concerned—but then a snort escapes.


    “I’m sorry,” she gasps, shoulders shaking with suppressedughter. “Your face!”


    “Hrious,” I mutter, peeling a soggy cracker off my arm. “Really, truly ster.”


    She helps us up, still fighting giggles. “I’ve got the ident clothes tote somewhere…” She rummages through a cab and produces a canvas bag. “Take Chloe to the gym showers in the east wing. No one uses them this time of day. I’ll clean up this masterpiece.”


    “Did I call you an angel earlier? I meant ‘saint.’”


    “Music to my ears,” she replies with a wink. “Now, scram, before someone importantes knocking.”


    I wrap a clean towel around Chloe, grab the clothes bag, and we make our escape.


    The halls are mercifully empty as we squelch our way to the east wing corporate gym. It’s one of those bougie setups with marble counters and fancy showers—perks for the executives who actually make decent money at Pavlov Industries.


    The women’s locker room is empty, thank god. I get Chloe into a shower stall and help her wash the juice from her hair, and then wrap her in one of the plush gym towels.


    “Your turn,” she says, pointing at my sticky costume.


    Right. My turn.


    I look down and grimace. I look like I just went ten rounds with the Kool-Aid Man.


    “Stay right there,” I tell her. “Pretend you’re a statue!”


    I step into a bathroom stall, close the door, and try to shimmy out of the dress.


    Key word: “try.” Because it does not go well.


    Not at all.


    The polyester is practically melted to my skin, and they might’ve identally mixed some cement into this juice, because it’s sticky everywhere I touch. I grab the zipper and?—


    No. Please, no.


    It’s stuck. The cheap metal teeth are snagged on a fold of fabric, and no amount of twisting or contorting helps. This thing has me trapped in polyester hell. No amount of yoga could save me.


    “Chloe, honey? Can you try to help with the zipper?”


    I open the door and turn my back toward her. Tiny fingers fumble with it for a few minutes before she deres, “It’s stuck real bad.”


    Great.


    Peachy.


    Wonderful stuff here.


    I rifle through the emergency clothes bin with increasing desperation. There’s got to be something in here besides…


    A Paw Patrol t-shirt sized for a kindergartener.


    I stare at the cartoon dogs grinning up at me. The shirt might—might – cover about a third of my torso. At best.


    “We need to find scissors,” I mumble, trying to think through my options. None are good.


    While I’m having my minor breakdown, Chloe has wandered over to the locker room door. Before I can stop her, she pushes it open.


    “Chloe, wait?—”


    But she’s gone. I hear her voice from the hallway, and then a deeper one that makes my stomach drop through the floor.


    “You have to help us, Mr. Beast! Belle is stuck and needs her zipper down!”


    Mr. WHO? Oh my God.


    I look down at myself—half-in, half-out of a soaked yellow princess dress, sticky with apple juice, and basically exposed from the waist up save for my nude-colored, barely-there bra that I wore because it’s the only one that doesn’t show through my white work shirt.


    I lunge for the paper towel dispenser, yanking out a fistful and pressing them against my chest like Eve in the Garden of Eden just as the locker room door swings open.


    Chloe appears, her small hand engulfed in a muchrger one that belongs to?—


    Sweet baby Jesus…


    Oleg.


    As in Oleg Pavlov.


    As in the Oleg Pavlov, CEO of Pavlov Industries.


    The man whose name is on my paycheck. The guy everyone calls “The Beast” behind his back because of his temper and the burn scars that mark the right side of his face and disappear under his cor.


    He fills the doorway, a mountain of a man in a ck tank top and gym shorts that reveal exactly why people also whisper about his fitness regimen.


    His muscles don’t just have muscles—they have their own zip codes and tax brackets. Sweat glistens on his skin, highlighting the ridge of scars along his jaw and neck.


    His dark hair is damp at the temples, and his eyes—a startling amber like whiskey on the rocks—lock onto mine.


    Those eyes sweep down my body—taking in my bare feet, the yellow polyester bunched around my waist, and finallynding on the paper towels I’m clutching to my chest like Tarzan’s Jane in hand-spun lingerie.


    His jaw tightens, and something shes in his expression that makes my skin tingle in ces it absolutely should not be tingling.


    I press my back against the cold tile wall like I could teleport through it if I try hard enough.


    Think, Sutton. Think.


    But my phone is in my office. My pepper spray is in my purse. And my dignity?


    Ha. Never had that in the first ce.


    “What is happening here?”


    His voice is more growl than words. If the busted A/C in the walls is a dying animal, then this is an animal that’s very much alive.


    Chloe pipes up immediately. “We were ying princesses and had an ident with the juice and Miss Palmer’s dress is stuck and we had to use the showers because Miss Mara said to and now she can’t get the zipper down and I went to find help and you’re the Beast so you have to help Belle!”


    She delivers that whole exnation in one breathless rush while I struggle to form words like a functioning adult.


    Oleg looks at me.


    Raises one eyebrow.


    Waits.


    “There was a spill in the daycare,” I finally manage to splutter out. “The A/C’s broken, renovations everywhere, we needed showers, Mara suggested… Sorry. I didn’t mean to be in here. It’s just?—”


    “You work at the daycare?” His eyes are still doing that thing where they seem to be memorizing every inch of my exposed skin.


    And, for its part, my exposed skin seems to be doing that thing where it’s going up in flushed tingles everywhere his eyes look.


    It’s a fucked-up kind of dance, if we’re being honest. I want off this ride. My hormones need to check themselves before they wreck themselves.


    Because the way Oleg Pavlov’s biceps flex as he crosses those massive arms over his chest? Pure sin. The kind of sin that got Eve kicked out of Eden.


    The kind that would have me living in a cardboard box behind a Wendy’s if I let my libido do the driving.


    I clutch the paper towels tighter, desperately grateful that at least the stupid Belle costume covers most of my southern regions.


    But my traitor nipples are staging their own rebellion, and his eyes miss nothing as they rake over me from head to toe.


    But in the immediate wake of this arousal I never wanted nor asked for, irritation res.


    I’ve worked at Pavlov Industries for eight months. I’ve seen Oleg in the hallways, atpany functions. I even handed him a coffee once when his assistant was in the bathroom.


    But of course he doesn’t recognize me—I’m just another invisible worker bee. A grunt. An NPC. Toilet paper stuck to his shoes.


    “You might recognize me if you looked at my face, Mr. Pavlov.” The words fly out before I can stop them, bristling with fatigue and frustration.


    His mouth quirks up at one corner. Not quite a smile.


    But not not a smile.


    “I might recognize you if you were wearing actual clothes and not paper towels. And if you were working where you’re supposed to be working.”


    Touché.


    But before I can respond, Chloe tugs on his hand. “Fix her zip, Mr. Beast!” she demands, pointing at my back.


    My face zes hotter. “That’s really not necessary?—”


    “Turn around.”


    Two words. Simple, terse—and utterly undeniable.


    My body wants to obey before my brain can catch up, which is exactly the kind of response I’ve spent two-plus years training myself out of. Men who expect instantpliance are men who take miles when given inches.


    But he’s still my boss.


    And I’m still trapped in this polyester disaster.


    His footsteps approach. One heartbeat. Two.


    Then heat radiates against my back as he steps closer, and my whole body goes electric.


    The zipper gives way with a decisive rrrrrip. Cool air hits my overheated skin as the bodice peels away, and I just manage to catch the costume before it drops past my hips.


    Paper towels still clutched to my chest, I try not to breathe in his scent.


    That way lies danger.


    The silence stretches between us, thick and frightening. I can feel his eyes on my bare skin.


    “You have other clothes here, I hope?” His voice is darker now, rougher. Like he’s tasting each word before letting it out.


    I manage a jerky nod, not trusting myself to speak. My heart is doing gymnastics in my chest, and my brain keeps getting stuck on the way his muscles ripple as he moves.


    “Good. I’ll take the child back to the daycare where she belongs.” He steps back, and I can breathe again.


    Almost.


    Until…


    “In the meantime, call my assistant for an appointment to see me tomorrow. Tell her it’s a Code Red priority.”


    I clutch the ruined costume tighter, face ming. “Code Red. Got it.”


    Thest thing I see before the door closes is his dark smirk.


    Thest thing I hear is: “No need to wear a princess dress.”