It was when she was getting ready for one of the most important events in her career as both a model and an editor when she asked Tristan to sleep with her.

She couldn't reach around her back to button up her own dress. Irritated, she let her arms fall, numb, and fished for her phone and speed-dialed her secretary.

"Ms. Kyle?" Tristan's voice said, picking up at the first ring, loud and clear, and she knew he was running up the stairs. It was the first time she called him inside. "What's wrong?"

"Get over here, please. Thanks," she muttered and hung up, tossing the phone on the bed.

He didn't bother with politeness and hesitations from stepping inside her home. He has access to her security code, anyway. "Ms. Kyle?" he yelled from the kitchen, frantic steps checking every room.

"Here." She looked at him through the mirror once he barged in, and his hand was inside his suit jacket, fingers gripping the gun on his hip. His frosty eyes were wide and panicked. "Button me up, please."

He took a few seconds to assess the situation, breathing heavily, only then realizing that she was in practically her lingerie without the dress buttoned up Still, he maintained his composure and took his hand off his weapon.

Sabina raised an eyebrow. "Relax, no one's brave enough to enter my apartment with a bodyguard like you. At least I know you do your job well—and it's a plus you're my secretary, too."

His lips pursed, and he finally stepped forward to stand behind her. Sabina gathered all her hair in one shoulder and stared at him in the mirror.

His fingers were gentle as they worked on the first button, at the base of her spine.

Sabina's red-coated lips spread into a smile. "What do you think?"

"Of what?" he asked cooly, quickly working on the next button. He tried to keep from touching her skin as much as possible—it made her grin, his effort.

"Of the dress."

"I think everyone who's worn the same thing will be put to shame."

It was an answer she wanted to hear. Her smile faded. "Give me an honest answer, Tristan."

"I was being honest, Ms. Kyle."

"No, you were being my employee." She rolled her eyes and batted him away once he stepped back, grabbing the jewelry from her desk. "Put this on me, too." She handed him a Swarovski necklace.

Tristan took it carefully, put it on her, and didn't say anything else.

"Thank you. Let's go down the elevator together, but I want a sip of wine first. This event is making me nervous," she admitted with reluctance, turning away to head to the kitchen. Tristan followed her, her purse on his arm.

"Nervous," he mused, standing in the living room.

Sabina raised an eyebrow at his comment and took out a glass and a bottle. "You don't think I can be nervous?"

He paused. "You almost never are."

"Mm." Sabina took one sip. "You want one?"

A ghost of a smile passed through his face. "I can't be tipsy if I'm protecting you."

"Protecting." The model scoffed, rounding the kitchen to lean against her ridiculously-expensive countertop. "I hate that word."

"You hate what it implies even more."

Sabina liked this. She liked that he was speaking his mind, she liked that he knew things about her. She took another sip, and then the front door made an abruptly loud noise, bursting wide open, and before she knew it, she was behind Tristan, her wine glass shattered all over the floor. "Don't move, put your hands up!" Tristan yelled, pointing his gun at the door.

His back was big, shoulders broad. Sabina remembers thinking she was safe with this man.

"Sorry, Jesus!" MJ's voice rang loudly against the walls. Sabina peeked through Tristan's shoulder—her friend was raising her arms, palms up, eyes wide and scared. "Sabina!"

"Tristan, it's just MJ," Sabina said, and found that her voice was shaky with relief. She put a hand on her bodyguard's extremely rigid shoulder, who was still keeping his stance. She sidestepped around him and forcefully placed her hand on top of the gun to drag it down. Tristan stared at her. "Just MJ," she repeated. Tristan's jaw clenched.

"Fucking hell," MJ panted, clutching a hand to her heart. "Fucking hell, Sabina, your bodyguard's going to kill me."

"Stop being dramatic," Sabina said, rolling her eyes. "What did you need?"

It turned out that MJ forgot some files needed for her work when she last slept over. As soon as she was gone, hesitating around Tristan, Sabina faced her bodyguard, still standing stiffly in the living room. "Don't kill my friends, Tristan."

"I apologize," he said immediately, voice low and regretful. But he didn't break her stare. "I didn't mean to scare her and you."

"I wasn't scared."

"No?"

"No," Sabina repeated, arching an eyebrow. "I think you're hot. Do you want to sleep with me?"

Tristan blinks, clearly not expecting it. And then he keeps his face expressionless. "You think I'm hot for pulling a gun on your friend?"

"I thought you were hot the first time I saw you and now I think I'm wet. I have time for a quickie, and then after the event, you can go up and we can finish later." Sabina smiled at him. "Yes or no?"

Tristan's jaw set. "I think it's unprofessional to sleep with my employer, Ms. Kyle."

"I didn't ask what you think. I asked if you wanted to or not."

Her secretary paused.

Sabina had confidence. She had a high self-esteem, she knew she had looks and a body people want (to kill for or to sleep with, take your pick)—and she was hardly ever the one doing the approaching.

When the silence stretched on, she wasn't willing to admit how annoyed she got at each passing second. Sabina raised an eyebrow and tapped her foot on the floor impatiently. "Well? I'm hot, you're hot, I think your dick is big, I really want it in my mouth or inside me."

Tristan wasn't surprised with her vulgar choice of words. Instead, finally, he reached up, long and slender fingers taking ahold of his tie. He stared at her and said, "I'm pretty sure this is against company policy, Kyle."

She grinned and stepped closer. "Take it up to HR, Bishop. For now, take care of me."

*

When it comes to fucking around with Tristan Bishop, Sabina has three rules:

1. No kissing.

2. No talking about it at work.

3. No feelings, no strings, no complications.

*

It takes three days—full three days of her scandal firing at her—that she finally decides she wants Tristan back.

It started with a mob outside her house; cameras, journalists, paparazzi—all waiting for her to leave her apartment come Monday morning. Denver didn't arrive with coffee or with a tablet, but he stuck to protocol, but every single time he would put his hand on her, Sabina jolted away, and it became a problem.

Paparazzi followed her car everywhere. She couldn't go out for lunch alone, let alone with partners and clients. For now, Elyse said, take the backseat. I don't want The Fit to suffer from this.

So she ordered in inside her office. Worked her ass off. Didn't leave until she had to go home and it was too late for people to follow her.

Tuesday started with meetings with her PR and legal teams. When she went out for a snack with them, thinking it would be safe as long as Denver was there, fans asking for a picture and a signature stopped by to crowd her. Someone was yelling, "Homewrecker bitch!", and she gave away a few signatures and forcefully smiled at photos until she felt too small, too closed in, and Denver had to manhandle her out of the situation. His touch still made her skin itch and crawl and her body felt stupidly wrong and she felt sick to the stomach. Stayed inside her office again.

Her work was all over the place. Calls were coming in and out from Tristan's—Denver's desk, and he kept switching them over to Sabina, like it wasn't his job to take them and see what they wanted. They were behind schedule for their editorial calendar, and her shoots were being pulled out from under her. Her agent called thrice, and her dad called five times. Sabina ignored all of those.

MJ came to visit, Andy called. One of her best friends was in her honeymoon and she was worried about Sabina.

"I'm fine," she insisted, picking at the salad on her desk. "I'm okay, I promise. Go have some super hot sex with your husband and leave me alone, alright?"

Andy didn't giggle or laugh. "Sab," she started softly, and oh no. No, the kid's not going to be sad over her. "I can fly home if you need me to—"

"No," she snapped, clenching her jaw. "No, you stay where you fucking are or I'm not talking to you for an entire goddamn year, okay? Andy, I am fine. I'm a tough fucking cookie—you should know that. Plus, this is going to die down soon, every model has to have their scandal."

Seated across her, MJ pursed her lips.

Sabina shot her a glare, and on the other line, Andy murmured, "It's just. You were there for me when things got rough for me, and I—"

"We're family, Andy. Look." Sabina sighed. "Do not go home. I can handle this. For my sake, please, please enjoy your goddamn honeymoon, or I'll kick Harton's ass for letting you worry about me."

Finally, finally, she conceded.

MJ raised an eyebrow and munched on her sandwich. "You're not fine."

"Did your psychologist of a boyfriend tell you that?" Sabina muttered snarkily, leaning back against her chair.

"He didn't need to. We're family, remember? And the Sabina Kyle I know doesn't lock herself up."

"I'm not locking myself up."

"I thought Tristan trained Denver."

"He did," Sabina gritted out, massaging her forehead. Her head fucking hurts. "He's incompetent as a secretary, but as a bodyguard, it's not his fault. It's mine. I freak out every time he touches me and that's a big-ass problem because he's my bodyguard and I should trust him to protect me."

The orange head was awfully silent.

Finally, Sabina tiredly looked at her. "What?"

"You don't trust people, Sab," MJ told her, putting down her sandwich and taking a napkin from the desk to dab onto her lips. "At least not easily. And this is the reason why you don't do relationships—you can't find it in yourself to trust someone new."

That made Sabina scoff. "You're talking like Tristan dumped me."

"In a way, he did." MJ shrugged and leaned forward to say firmly, "You're back in South Bend, Sabina, our holiday is over, and you made your statement. You can't order in every time, you can't be skittish in your own apartment. You're the managing editor of this place, for fuck's sake. Talk to Tristan, ask him to come back, and then do your work. It's either that or you take a whole security team with you, and I know you hate being protected by one person, much less a group of five. Plus, you gotta admit, Tristan was damn good at being both your secretary and bodyguard. You need both right now."

She cleared her throat and looked away. "I was thinking about it already."

MJ was pleased. "Good."

"And for the record, he didn't dump me, I dumped him. No one dumps me."

She sits on it for a while. And then fires Denver when someone comes close enough to smack her ass just as she's leaving the office.

And then she finds herself standing outside his little condominium unit, clutching the handle of her bag with her perfectly-manicured fingers. Sabina stares at the door angrily, thinking if she stared at it long enough, it would open by itself, and she wouldn't have to go through the humiliation and utter embarrassment of begging her employee to work for her again because she's, what, scared of trusting someone new?(And her mistrust was correct. Tristan wouldn't allow that shit to have happened. Wouldn't say, "Ms. Kyle, it was an accident, I'm sorry,"—because there were never accidents with Tristan. She felt safe with this man and she needed that safety.)

With a quick inhale, she presses her finger to the doorbell and winces at the loud sound it makes. Sabina gathers the last shred of dignity she has left and stands straight, just as she hears footsteps nearing the door.

And Tristan Bishop out of his suit, in just a dark blue hoodie and gray sweatpants, it makes her nostrils flare in annoyance. The guy looks glorious in a suit, and he also looks glorious in fucking sweatpants with his blonde hair shaggy and down as opposed to the usual gelled-up and pushed back.

He's surprised as he takes her in, hand faltering from opening the door wide. Sabina catches a peek—the small unit has boxes all around the place, and then her window is gone. Tristan's still staring at her in disbelief, and she sees his Adam's apple bob up and down before he says, "Ms. Kyle."

And it's so stupid, but hearing that in his voice makes her shoulders slump, like a heavy weight was taken off of them. "I'll double your salary."

His eyes were still wide and confused, and he blinks at her statement. "What?"

"Come back to work for me and I'll double it," Sabina clarifies impatiently, pressing her lips into a thin line. "I've been at the brink of death since Monday, I fired Denver because an asswipe came close enough to smack my ass, and I can't leave my house or my office if it's not you I'm with. Work is fucking all over the place and I'm going crazy. What do you say?"

Tristan stares at her outstretched hand. Then his gaze lifts back up to her face, and when he takes a deep breath, Sabina already knows what he's going to say. "I'm sorry about Denver, I told him—"

"I don't care about that," Sabina snaps, heart sinking in her chest. "It's not your fault. What do you say?"

He purses his lips. Sets his jaw tight and crosses his arms over his chest. "Kyle, I'm sorry, I can't."

"Okay." Sabina exhales heavily. She drops her bag—a thousand-dollar bag, mind you—on the dirty floor and locks him with her gaze. "Okay, you don't work for me anymore, you resigned a few weeks ago, so you have a free pass. Say whatever you want to say to me, get it all out, call me a fucking bitch, lay out your demands, curse me out, do whatever you want. And then I'll forget about it, I'll double your salary and you can come back to work today."

Tristan raises an eyebrow and pushes his tongue against his cheek. Sabina tries very hard to lock her gaze with his icy blues. "You're very hard to get to know."

"I don't want you to know me," Sabina answers immediately—like an instinctive reaction. "And speak for yourself, I know nothing about you too, except for what you like in bed and how you sound when you're orgasming."

"But you don't want to know me."

"No, I don't. What else?"

Tristan takes a breath. "I think you're spoiled."

"That's mild," Sabina says, wanting to laugh at his admission. Everyone knew that already.

"I think you get whatever you want easily without asking for it. You've never had to ask for anything in your life."

Sabina's lips twitch. "I'm asking now."

Tristan leans against the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest. "And you still think you're going to get what you want."

"Well, yes." Sabina blinks and tilts her head to the side. "That's what usually happens when people talk to me. I'm smart, I have a pretty face, an amazing body, and I have money."

He doesn't answer. Just stares at her.

Sabina waits. When he doesn't offer anything more, she prods impatiently, "What is it? What's the reason you quit? You can't stand me? You hate me?"

"I find you difficult sometimes, yes, but no. Those aren't the reasons."

"I'm finding you fucking difficult right now, Bishop," Sabina says through gritted teeth. "Tell me why you quit."

"Kyle. What I have right now," Tristan says, swallowing hard, keeping his face passive as he stares at her, "a doubled salary won't fix if I'm spending twenty-three hours of my day with you."

Her brows raise. "So it's the unreasonable work hours that made you quit?"

Tristan's head bows, and strands of sandy blonde hair fall across his eyes when he raises his head again. Sabina has always been a good judge of character—she knows when people are fake, when people are lying, when people are fucking assholes—but somehow, with Tristan, she can't read him. It was never easy to read him. "I spend twenty-three hours of my day with you," he says again, quietly this time. "You call me thirty minutes after I get home to reschedule a flight. You call me to come in at six in the morning to prepare your reports. I schedule your wax appointments, sure, that's not a problem—but it's not all I do. And though I said I wanted to date you before, it was a breath of fresh air when I wasn't scrambling for sleep or food or time for myself and my family or friends."

"So we get to the crux of the problem," Sabina says, pleased and finally relieved. She sighs and crosses her arms, stares him down. "Alright. Thank you for scheduling my wax appointments, and I know I'm a maniac at work—I didn't realize I was overworking you, too."

"No, you didn't realize I had a problem with it until after I quit." He glances at her skeptically, scrunching his eyebrows together. "You're not hiring me back because you're in love with my dick, are you?"

"Shut the fuck up, moron. I wouldn't be here, humiliating myself like this, if I didn't trust you and think you were incompetent. Now stop fishing for compliments and tell me: what do you think about an increased salary and minimized work hours?"

His mouth falls shut. Bingo. Sabina grins widely and continues, "You can come in at eight and go home at five—Stan will be there to drive me home. If I have an event, which I won't until the scandal dies down, I'll pay you for going overtime. You get the weekend off once it's safe for me to go without you—switch with Denver. Yes, I'll hire him back if it means you go back to work."

Tristan is silent. Sabina's pulse is ringing against her ears.

Then, finally: "You're bending a lot of your rules for me, Kyle."

"I have to since I need you, Bishop."

The corner of his mouth pulls up in a half-smile. Slowly, he drawls, "Sabina Kyle needs me. Never thought I'd hear those words coming from you."

Sabina scowls. "Don't be happy. Also, don't expect that this brings back our fuck buddy agreement."

"Wasn't expecting," Tristan answers lazily. Like he wasn't butthurt over her rejection a few weeks ago. "Think you've made that clear with Heath."

Sabina's nostrils flare. "You pissed me off and look where it got me."

The fucker shrugs. "Not my fault he's married. And it's not yours, either."

She's had enough of this. "Get dressed, you're coming back with me to the office."

His smile fades. Pursing his lips, he says, "I can't, I have things to take care of first. I'll be in tomorrow."

Snarkily, she snaps, "This is not what I'm starting to pay you for."

"Start paying me tomorrow. And I'm sure I have hell to face when I come back to work, so give me this one day." Tristan nods at her and backs away to his door, inside his condominium unit. "Go home, Kyle, you look like a mess."

"Says you," she hisses angrily. "And you don't get a free pass anymore—you're working for me again, so it's Ms. Kyle to you, you stupid bastard."

Even after she leaves, she hears his laugh in her head, and it makes her smile. Just a tiny bit.