Muddy footprints covered the hallway from uncaring executives, and the last thing anyone wanted was the big boss seeing the floor filthy. The janitorial staff was busy with a clogged toilet upstairs, so guess who had the duty of crawling on her hands and knees with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Windex? Me, that’s who. Trent walked in while I was crouched on the floor, my skirt riding up my hips as I scrubbed at a stubborn patch of mud. “You look good on your knees.” I snapped my head around, ready to verbally eviscerate whoever was crude enough to make a remark like that. When I saw who was standing there my reply died in my throat and my cheeks flushed hotly. He couldn’t have really said what I think he said. “I was just cleaning up the mud,” I said quietly. “Continue,” he said, stepping around me without another glance like I was a scullery maid and he was some kind of medieval lord. A few years ago, I would have out some comment about me being just as worthy of attention as he was, but the biggest part of me was focused on how wet my panties were from what he had said. Trent thought I looked good on my knees. Beyond being richer than God, my stepbrother was devastatingly sexy, with wavy dark hair, ice blue eyes, and a body that, at least judging by how he wore a suit, was pretty damn cut.
