When Trouble Walked In

TESSA

Sitting on the edge of Cleo and Dex’s plush living room sofa, I took a long, slow pull from my beer bottle. The glass was freezing against my palm, a sharp contrast to the suffocating warmth radiating from the couples surrounding me. Being the only single person in a tight-knit friend group was an extreme sport. Being the single one among couples who couldn't keep their hands off each other was pure torture.

To my left, Wyatt traced idle circles on Mila’s hip, the heavy ink of his tattoos flexing with every subtle movement. Across the coffee table, Dex pressed a lingering kiss to the curve of Cleo’s neck, making her let out a soft, breathy laugh. The air practically hummed with their combined pheromones. It was the kind of undeniable, domestic bliss that made a girl reevaluate her life choices.

I wasn't desperately hunting for a husband. But sitting here, drowning in all this aggressive affection, a small voice in the back of my head started whispering that maybe it was time to find the right guy.

The problem was my screening process. After a spectacular parade of heartbreaks, I had forged a strict, unbreakable rule in iron: no bastards, no players, and no womanizers. I was a scientist. I thrived on logic, observable facts, and predictable outcomes. Messy, arrogant men who shattered hearts for sport did not fit the equation.

But logic has a funny way of flying out the window the second trouble actually kicks the front door open.

The heavy oak door swung wide, and the easy chatter in the apartment ground to an immediate halt. Dex’s younger brother stepped over the threshold, bringing a sharp, electric shift in the room's atmosphere.

Rhys Caldwell had just returned to New York after running the London office, and Mila had conveniently left out the most important detail about him. She never mentioned he looked like *that*.

He stepped into the warm glow of the living room, and my breath hitched. He wore a tailored suit on a casual Saturday night, yet he didn't look stuffy. He looked lethal. Broad shoulders filled out the dark fabric, tapering down to a narrow waist and endlessly long legs. His dark blonde hair was pushed back, slightly messy, framing a jawline sharp enough to cut glass.

He radiated a fierce, arrogant virility that made my pulse stumble. In my head, I had a very specific, highly secret classification for men like him.

Wolf Charming.

Prince Charming was a fairy tale myth. Perfect, sanitized, and boring. But the Wolf Charming? That was the secret, darker fantasy. The kind of man who would back you against a wall, take you rough and wild in the bedroom, but put on a perfectly pressed suit and treat you like a queen in public.

“Wolf Charming?” I leaned in and whispered the words into Mila’s ear as we all stood up to greet the newcomer.

Mila was the root cause of my current romantic crisis. She had married Wyatt, an obscenely hot, tattooed former player who also happened to be a massive nerd. They were a walking jackpot. I kept trying to convince them to let me swipe a cheek swab so I could clone Wyatt in the lab, because lightning striking twice in this city felt mathematically impossible.

Mila didn't miss a beat. She leaned close, her voice a low murmur. “Bastard Charming, going by the stories Wyatt tells me.”

My instinctive smile died on my lips. My spine snapped straight. As a researcher, I hated jumping to conclusions. Stereotypes were sloppy science. But I had spent the last several months aggressively detoxing from New York’s endless supply of smooth-talking, emotionally unavailable scumbags. Hearing the word 'bastard' attached to this walking god of a man triggered my defense mechanisms.

I swallowed the last drop of my beer and set the empty bottle on the coffee table with a solid clink. I braced myself as he moved through the room, greeting the others before finally stopping in front of me.

He towered over me. Even wearing my favorite heels, I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. His eyes were a striking, predatory light brown. My stomach executed a nervous flip. I forced my lips into a polite, neutral smile, but then he smiled back. Perfect, straight teeth. A devastating curve of the mouth.

*Damn it all to hell. He is fucking gorgeous.*

I gave my head a microscopic shake, breaking the sudden trance.

“Nice to meet you, Rhys. I’m Tessa. Welcome back to New York,” I managed to say, my voice steady despite the frantic, erratic pounding in my chest. I extended my right hand.

“Nice to meet you, Tessa.”

His large hand engulfed mine. His grip was firm, hot, and electric. A sharp, unwanted shiver raced down my spine, pooling low in my stomach. I tried to dismiss the physical reaction. I tried to blame it on the heavy, expectant silence in the room. I could feel Wyatt, Mila, Dex, and Cleo burning holes into the sides of our heads. It was as if a neon sign was flashing above us: *Look! The only two single people in the room are touching!*

But the awkwardness didn't come from our friends. It came from him.

Rhys didn't just shake my hand. He held it, keeping me anchored in place as his light brown eyes dropped from my face. He looked directly at my breasts. He didn't offer a polite, fleeting glance. It was a slow, deliberate, heavy stare. He took his time, unapologetically assessing the curve of my chest under my top.

A hot flush of defensive anger and heavy, unwanted sexual awareness hit me all at once. The audacity of the man. The raw, unfiltered appraisal left me feeling exposed and hyper-aware of my own skin.

The second his fingers loosened, I yanked my hand back.

The moment shattered. Dex, Wyatt, and Owen clapped Rhys on the back, pulling him toward the leather sofas to catch up. I didn't waste a single second. I grabbed Mila by the elbow and physically dragged her toward the kitchen.

The kitchen offered a brief sanctuary from the suffocating tension of the living room. I practically dove for the refrigerator, needing something to do with my shaking hands.

“His eyes are exactly like Dex’s,” Mila noted, leaning casually against the marble island.

She wasn't wrong. Those brown eyes were dangerous. Hypnotic.

“Yeah, and apparently, so is his reputation. You know, before Dex actually settled down and married Cleo,” I shot back, twisting the caps off two fresh bottles of beer. The joke made us both laugh, breaking some of my nervous energy. “Do not tell Cleo I said that, by the way. She will murder me.”

Dex and Cleo were another terrifying example of romance. They were both stubborn, arrogant assholes who somehow fell madly in love right before they managed to kill each other. I assumed they just channeled all their mutual hostility into wild sex.

Mila accepted her beer, her lips twitching with amusement. “He checked out your boobs.”

I groaned, leaning my hip against the counter. “You saw that? I was praying it happened too fast for anyone to notice.”

“Tess, everyone in that room noticed.”

“Ugh! Why were they all staring at us like that?”

“Because you are the only single people in the room,” Mila pointed out, taking a sip. “When you’re married, watching two attractive, unattached people collide is basically prime-time television.”

“Well, you can change the channel. Nothing is happening there. Nothing.”

Mila rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. No scumbags, no bastards, no womanizers. You’ve been chanting that mantra for over a year.”

“And I will keep chanting it until the actual right guy shows up.”

Mila grinned, raising her brown glass bottle high in the air. “To the right guy! May he drop from the sky soon.” She bumped her bottle against mine, forcing the toast. “And may he cure your bad mood with lots of sex!”

I gasped, nearly choking on my drink. “Hey! I do not have a bad mood!”

“Excuse me.”

The deep, gravelly voice echoed from the kitchen doorway.

I froze. My lungs locked up. Rhys stood there, filling the entire frame. The casual, confident way he leaned against the doorjamb made the spacious kitchen suddenly feel the size of a closet. The air grew thick, heavy with the same uncomfortable, charged tension from the living room.

“Mind if I raid Dex’s wine stash?” Rhys asked. He wasn't looking at me. His gaze was fixed on Mila, though a smirk played at the corner of his mouth. He had definitely heard the toast.

“I’ll help you find the good stuff,” Mila offered smoothly. She pushed off the island and guided him toward the modern, wall-mounted wine rack directly behind where I stood.

I pressed my back against the counter, gripping my cold beer like a lifeline. I took a desperate, long sip, trying to block out his proximity as the two of them discussed vintages just inches behind my shoulders. His deep voice vibrated through the air, scratching along my nerve endings.

“Seriously, what do they feed you Caldwell men?” Mila asked out of nowhere. I clamped my mouth shut to keep from spitting beer everywhere. “I know Dex lives at the gym, but that doesn't explain how huge you are. And I don't just mean your height.”

God give me strength. Mila had zero filter.

A low, rich chuckle rumbled from Rhys’s chest. The sound did terrible things to my insides.

“You’re the scientist, right?” Rhys said, his voice laced with amusement. “You should be the one explaining genetics to me.”

“Oh, I think there are certain anomalies even science can’t explain. Right, Tess?” Mila pivoted, dragging me straight into the crossfire.

I forced myself to turn around. I slapped on my best unbothered, professional expression. “Of course. Whatever you guys are debating, I agree.”

Rhys turned his body toward me. The amused smirk vanished, replaced by something much darker and far more intense. He took a single step closer, invading my personal space. He raised one thick brow.

“So. You’re a scientist too?”

I swallowed hard, refusing to step back and give him the satisfaction of knowing he intimidated me. “Yes. I work mostly as a researcher these days.”

Rhys didn't say anything at first. He just looked at me. Once again, that brazen, unapologetic gaze dropped from my eyes. This time, he didn't just stare at my breasts. He dragged his light brown eyes down the entire length of my body, taking in the curve of my waist, the shape of my hips, and the exposed skin of my legs, before slowly, deliberately, trailing all the way back up to my face. The sheer weight of his stare left me breathless, trapped in a bubble of heavy, unwanted sexual awareness.

He tilted his head, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur.

“I admit, I had a very different image of scientists in mind.”