Check her out

The SUV door clicks shut behind me, and I stand on her curb, flanked by my Sentinels. I don’t need to see her face to know she’s behind that door, frantically trying to assemble a version of Helena Lima that hasn't been dismantled by a 3:00 AM firing email.

When the door finally opens, the "Smooth Operator" is there, but she’s vibrating with a frequency only a pilot would notice. She’s wearing an Argentina jersey—fitted, tactical, and a blatant play for my attention. Her posture is stiff, her chin lifted high enough to be a challenge.

I don’t soften. I don’t offer a hand. I simply watch her.

I let my gaze travel. I don't look at her face; I ogle. It’s a deliberate, lecherous sweep of her body—from the curve of her waist to the long, statuesque line of her legs. When my eyes linger on her backside as she shifts, I hear it: a tiny, involuntary exhale of relief. She thinks I’m a "pervert." She doesn't realize that by letting her see my "leering" side, I’ve given her back the power Damian took away last night.

Her blush deepens until she looks like she’s about to combust. She snaps, her voice sharp and defensive, “Do you approve, you bastard?”

I step into her personal space, the Harvard Law logic meeting the Naval instinct. I don’t give her the "adequate" insult she’s braced for. I give her the truth she’s starving for.

“You look incredibly gorgeous and sexy, Helena,” I say, my voice low and clinical. “That jersey doesn't even stand a chance against you.”

It’s like hitting her with a flashbang. Her breath catches, and for a heartbeat, the "Fixer" vanishes. She looks ****. She looks... seen.

“You... you’re such a pervert,” she snaps, her voice an octave higher than she wanted.

I raise an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. I move my hand around her back, making sure to let it brush low against her as she walks toward the SUV. She stiffens, mortified, but she doesn't pull away.

“Keep your lecherous comments to yourself!” she mutters, retreating toward the car before I can see the smile she's fighting. “We’re going to a football match, not a photoshoot!”

I step past her and open the car door, my tone calm and controlled. “Get in, babe. Unless you want a spanking in front of the neighbors.”

She hesitates, a flicker of the resort night passing through her eyes, then she climbs in. I watch the way she settles into the leather seat, her "Tsundere" mask firmly back in place, while her heart hammers against her ribs.

The breakup shattered her, but my "lewdness" is putting the pieces back together. By the time we reach the stadium, she won't just be an Argentina fan; she'll be a woman looking for a reason to save the man she thinks she hates.