Rosalind Ross looked down at my feet like I was utterly unworthy of her time or attention. I’d never seen a beautiful woman so instantly unhappy to see me. Actually, that’s not remotely true. I certainly have, but usually they know me first. Biblically, I mean. Usually, I at least get a chance to disappoint attractive women a bit emotionally before they hate me. Apparently, Rosalind Ross was going to cut straight to the chase.

Like father, like daughter, I thought to myself. Of course, she’s going to be as haughty and stuck-up as he is. It’s in her blood, after all.

“My name is Ryan Conroe,” I told her, smiling as politely as I could and extending a handshake, “and yes, I am here to rescue you. I work with your father. You’re welcome by the way.” I tried and failed to fight down a smirk. She was gorgeous, but if she was even a quarter as uptight, entitled, and unpleasant as her father, this whole affair would be so much easier.

Hell, if she’s really nasty, it might even be sort-of fun.

I’ve never been accused of being too nice, especially at business. Which is what this was, even if it didn’t seem that way right now. This was no ordinary favor.

“Delightful,” she said sarcastically. Her voice had a slight east-coast accent. Probably from whatever hoity-toity girl’s boarding school her father sent her to for ‘finishing’, ‘preparation’ or whatever rich girls are taught before being launched into the world to look down on the likes of me. “As if this day couldn’t get any worse, now I get to spend time one of my father’s bloodsucking lawyer lackeys. He doesn’t work with anyone, you know. You either work for him, or against him. Given that you’re here at eight p.m. on a Saturday during South by Southwest, I assume you work for him and have screwed up somehow. Lucky you. And lucky me.”

I laughed at her blunt pronouncement. Her wide green eyes flashed up to my face and her soft lips parted in apparent surprise as she saw me properly for the first time. I paused and swallowed hard against the sudden arousal that shot through me. Her father had given me a picture of her a couple of weeks back when he explained everything, but it really didn’t do her justice. Rosie Ross was easily the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen or would ever see. I instantly had no doubt that was the truth.

Wild, curly, chestnut brown hair cascaded around her round, doll-like face. High cheekbones, a delicate frame, and almond shaped eyes betrayed her half-Korean heritage, but the green of her eyes, porcelain skin, curly hair, and smattering of freckles were all from her father’s Scotch-Irish Ross side. She was medium-height, maybe five-six and intensely hourglass shaped. Her curves were exceptionally well displayed by her tight yoga pants and little, nearly transparent tank top. Her full, round tits were barely contained by thin material. If I stared (and I couldn’t help but stare), I could see the outlines of her nipples through the flimsy white fabric. Once she turned around, I had a feeling that her ass would be just as pleasant. She was exotic, sexy, and much, much too young.

My hand was still extended between us, I belatedly realized. She was the one staring. At me? Perhaps I repulsed her. That was somewhat new as well. Usually women universally like me—especially at first. Her instant dislike was a bit of an ego blow, but I was ten years her senior and associated with her father. She probably saw me as just another old lawyer, cramping her bohemian post-millennial style.

“I see you’ve inherited your father’s lack of filter,” I told her. I was unable to keep my smirk to myself. “And you aren’t wrong. Yes, I do work for him, and yes, I did screw up. So here I am, rescuing you on a Saturday night. Again, you’re welcome.”

“Helping me really is your punishment?” She blinked up at me. She’d turned bright pink all of a sudden. Her eyes had unexpectedly become huge, probably surprised that I was telling her anything other than whatever her father would have told me to say. As it was, I was improvising.

“Helping you is my punishment,” I confirmed. I probably shouldn’t have admitted the half-truth to her, but she seemed to have some sort of power to make me talk. A sudden burst of fear that it would be impossible not to give her whatever she wanted pinged through me. I needed to make sure I didn’t tell her something catastrophically stupid, like the truth. That would be disastrous. I needed to get myself under control.

From the moment I laid eyes on her, my heart had been racing against my ribs. My brother’s drum kit was exposed to less percussion than my torso this evening. I felt like a stupid, horny teenager again. And I wasn’t even the teenager in this situation—she was.

I wondered how long I should keep my hand extended between us for her to shake. The moments ticked by in uncomfortable quiet. She didn’t seem to want to touch me. She looked down at my hand and then back up at me and her lips snapped closed again. She shook my hand with her tiny, pale one. Her handshake had all the warmth and enthusiasm I’d use to touch a snake.

“Rosalind Ross,” she replied, as if there was a chance in hell that I didn’t know exactly who she was. But her voice had taken on a different quality. Sheepishness? “Thank you for coming so quickly. I’m sorry if I was rude. This day has been kind of bizarre. This is my birthday, you see, and it hasn’t turned out quite how I’d hoped…” Her cheeks were still that pale rose color. The look she shot up at me a moment later was a lot softer than the scowl she’d been wearing when she opened the door. Perhaps my first impression of Ms. Ross had been wrong.

“Today’s your birthday?” Ross hadn’t mentioned that it was his daughter’s birthday. Why hadn’t he mentioned something so important? Maybe he thought it wouldn’t matter. He was notoriously bad at reading social queues.

Rosie nodded sadly. “Yeah. You aren’t mad, are you? I shouldn’t have snapped at you and taken anything out on you, even if today has royally sucked. I really do appreciate the help.” Her wide eyes begged for forgiveness. She was genuinely sorry?

Christ, please just let her be a nightmare-bitch. I don’t want her to be sweet. I don’t know if I can stand it if she’s sweet.

I scowled and wrenched my eyes up again from her chest to her face.

Don’t talk to her tits, dumbass. There’s not a woman in the world that likes that.

The worst part was that she’d seen me staring. She was now smirking at me. It was amazing how quickly I’d lost the upper hand after her apology.

“Don’t worry about that Ms. Ross. Do you want to show me the damage before we go?” I asked. “That way I can call the right people to make repairs.” I was grasping at professionalism much too late, but better late than never.

“You’re really going to fix it tonight?”

“If I can. Why do you think I’m here?” We stared at one another for a long, and awkward moment. “Um, so can I see what’s going on?” I asked eventually.

She blinked at me, realizing that she’d been staring and blushing furiously. I liked watching her blush. I liked making her blush even more. I liked it too much. “S-sure, come on in,” she was stuttering her way through telling me, turning to display a perfectly round ass that flicked hypnotically from side to side as she walked. “You can call me Rosie by the way,” she said over her shoulder. She led me into her living room and looked anywhere but me. I couldn’t look anywhere but her, at least until a drop of water landed on my face and I looked up.

It took me a moment to process what I was seeing. The apartment was… raining? That’s bad. Very dangerous, actually. Her father said it was a small plumbing problem. I’d been expecting a clogged sink or something. Maybe a broken dishwasher. Not this.

“Ms. Ross,” I told her, trying to sound reasonable, calm, and professional, “we need to turn off all the electricity in here. Right now.”

“Please call me Rosie,” she repeated, finally looking at me again. Another very young woman, a tall, model-esque blonde, had appeared next to her. She had two small suitcases and a guitar with her. “This is my roommate Trina.”

“Ok Rosie,” I told her, walking around the little apartment and turning lights off and ripping plugs out of walls before we all got electrocuted or the place lit on fire, “if you insist.” I paused in front of the blonde, “Nice to meet you Trina. I’m Ryan. Rosie’s dad called me to help you out. Can two you go wait in the hallway? It’s extremely dangerous for you to be in here.”

They exchanged a look and nodded before heading obediently for the door. I supposed I was old enough that they were listening like I knew what I was talking about. Luckily for them, I did. I’d done enough DIY carpentry to realize just how much danger we were all in. It was a lot. Against all odds, Ross had been right to call me about this. His daughter Rosie really did need someone to rescue her tonight.

I went around the apartment and turned everything off that I could find. Lamps, computers, blenders, TV’s, hair straighteners, these two girls had more electronics in the twelve hundred square feet than a Best Buy. I even found a little vibrator, set to charge in a drawer in Rosie’s room. I tried not to think about that and failed utterly. It was all I could think about. I pulled the plug and slammed the drawer shut, wishing I didn’t know she was a sexual creature and with blood as red as mine. It only made it harder not to want her.

Just get this done, I told myself. She’s Rosie Ross, a nineteen-year-old. Barely out of high school. Basically a child and the daughter of the most powerful entertainment lawyer in Hollywood—and maybe the world. Your boss. Don’t forget that. Not even for a moment. Not even if you wish you could.

Because you know what you have to do, and it has nothing to do with Rosie’s apartment. You’re here to crush her dreams. It probably isn’t going to be pretty.