Amelia steadied her frayed nerves, casting a sideways glance at the young man who stood before her, clad only in a towel. "Taking a shower first thing in the morning?"

"I have you to thank for that," Rick replied, effortlessly twisting open a bottle of water he'd retrieved from the fridge.

He tilted his head back to drink, and Amelia couldn't help but notice the shadows that played across his face, the light catching the delicate movements of his throat as he swallowed. It was hard not to be captivated by the scene painted by the morning sun's golden touch.

"What?!" Her mind raced back to the night before, anxiety shooting through her. Had she done something regrettable after drinking?

She watched Rick, trying to play it cool despite the panic. This was the first time she’d seen him exhibit such a stoic expression.

"I mean, you did try to hold onto me for dear life and demanded kiss after kiss," Rick stated plainly, his voice unwavering.

Amelia felt a rush of mortification. If a trapdoor had appeared beneath her, she would gladly have leapt through it. The thought of having offended a minor was too much to bear.

The room was thick with an awkward silence, the kind that was impossibly hard to shake off.

Suddenly, Rick leaned in closer, capturing her full attention. Amelia's breath hitched as she tried to calm her racing heart. "What are you planning to do?"

"Did you actually fall for that?" Rick let go, a triumphant smile playing at the corners of his lips. "You're too gullible."

Relief softened the tension in Amelia’s body. She shook her head, batting his hand away. "Lying isn’t very gentlemanly, Rick."

Ignoring her reprimand, Rick straightened, showing his mischievous streak as he reached over to lift her effortlessly from the bar stool.

Suspended in midair, Amelia’s legs instinctively kicked, her hands clutching at his shoulders. The heat of his skin under her fingers was surprising, his pulse hammering rhythmically just beneath the surface, sending an unexpected thrill through her.

Rick's grip around her waist was like a flame-hot rope, binding her in place, rendering resistance futile. Despite being the one physically elevated, a keen sense of vulnerability whispered to her, the boy before her possessing a strength that seemed to brook no opposition.

"What are you doing?" she stammered, her cheeks flushing hotly.

"You call me kid one more time, and I’ll dunk you in the pool," he warned, his tone low and magnetic, lacking the clarity of their initial meetings.

Amelia was caught in the pull of his gaze—dark, swirling depths blazing with a life of their own.

His lips set in a firm line, Rick's chiseled features carried an air of authority she was all too familiar with—much like George's.

"Okay, I’m sorry," Amelia conceded, recognizing she’d underestimated a young man's sense of pride.

"Good," Rick replied, placing her gently back on the stool, his hand brushing over her hair in a familiar, comforting gesture.

"I carried you back last night," he added, giving her an explanation for his earlier irritation.

Reflecting on the role reversal, Amelia realized she'd be equally frustrated if she’d done the caretaking only to be dismissed as a child.

Responsibility without due respect was indeed a grave imbalance.

After a beat, she added, "Rick... I didn’t wash my hair this morning. Do you mind not running your hands through it?"

His enthusiastic massaging evidently had reached its limits, and she wondered why he always seemed to forget boundaries.

Rick hesitated, then raised his hand in mock surrender. "I’ll go wash up."

The door closed softly behind him.

Amelia exhaled, relieved to reclaim some personal space. She retreated to her room, intent on resolving the persistent sensation that had lingered from her morning tasks.

Examining the evidence, she concluded that it had been a night of particularly vivid dreams, the soreness a testament to pent-up stress relieved unconventionally. Dwelling on the cause felt embarrassing yet strangely exhilarating as well.

She turned on the shower, letting the water wash over her worried thoughts. Her mind wandered unexpectedly to another concern—a slip of paper amidst her mental clutter.

George's words lingered like a specter. She hadn't quite wrapped her head around the implications of their unique arrangement. She mused over the fictitious narratives these agreements often took, expecting a contract of mutual indifference. But George had never framed it that way. He'd requested her presence with more sincerity than she anticipated.

Maybe it had been just her imagination, but the way he said her name, the jokes sprinkled through their exchanges—they felt different, unlike the stoic professionalism he'd always displayed.

George always personified sophistication, never faltering from his polished demeanor.

Yet behind those lenses was a gaze that spoke of concealed depths, their removal revealing an untamed allure, quintessentially predatory, the kind born of natural majesty.

With that stark vulnerability pressing in on her thoughts, she couldn’t help but wonder: who was the real man behind George's carefully curated facade?