The House of Temptation.

The late afternoon sun dipped low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the sprawling estate as Clair pulled into the long, winding driveway. Tall oaks with gnarled branches lined the path, casting shadows over the beautifully designed stone pavement.

Describing the house at the end of the driveway as anything less than breathtaking would be a lie. It was an architectural masterpiece of intricate stone masonry, sleek glass and dark wood. It was the kind of home one only saw on magazine covers, the kind that didn't scream, but whispered wealth in every meticulous choice of design.

Clair took it all in slowly and steadied her breath before stepping out of her car. The invitation had been clear—to discuss the terms of her employment as, a private nurse for Brad's father. It was a professional meeting. Nothing more.

Yet, as she approached the grand entrance, she couldn't ignore the flutter in her stomach, the awareness of the line she was inching closer to.

The heavy wooden door swung open before she could even knock. A woman, dressed in a crisp black uniform, smiled politely.

"Miss Clair?"

She nodded.

"Mr. Bradford is expecting you. Please, come in."

The moment she stepped inside, the air shifted. The scent of polished cedar and something faintly spicy—perhaps cologne—lingered in the air. The foyer was vast, with a crystal chandelier cascading from the high ceiling, its reflections dancing across the polished marble floor. Abstract paintings adorned the walls, each piece bold yet meticulously curated. Clair felt the weight of the house, the sheer elegance of it pressing against her.

The housekeeper led her through a hallway, past a sitting room where sunlight streamed through towering windows, illuminating an elegant piano. It was easy to imagine the space filled with the soft notes of a melody, but at the moment, the house was eerily quiet.

Finally, she was ushered into what appeared to be a private study.

"He'll be with you in a moment," the woman said before disappearing down the hall.

Clair took in the room, her fingers absentmindedly grazing the spines of the books lined on the dark oak shelves. Leather-bound volumes, medical journals, first editions—everything here was curated, intentional. Just like Brad.

She turned toward the far end of the room, where a large window overlooked the manicured garden below. The view was stunning, but her gaze was drawn to something else.

A painting.

It hung above a fireplace, larger than life, depicting a stormy seascape. The waves crashed against jagged cliffs, their force captured in each meticulous brushstroke. The sky above was an unsettling mix of dark grays and fiery orange, a clash of elements that somehow mirrored the storm brewing within her.

"You like it?"

The deep voice behind her sent a jolt down her spine. She turned swiftly, her pulse quickening.

Brad stood shirtless in the doorway, his presence commanding, chiseled abs and all.

The sight of him knocked the breath from her lungs. He wore only a pair of tailored black slacks, his toned chest still damp, as though he'd just stepped out of the shower. A towel hung loosely around his neck, and the faint scent of cedar and spice intensified.

"Dammit l!" Clair muttered, forcing herself to meet his gaze, but the amusement in his eyes told her he had noticed the flicker of reaction she hadn't been able to hide.

"I didn't mean to intrude," she said quickly, turning her focus back to the painting.

"You're not intruding," Brad said, stepping into the room. "I wanted you to feel at home."

Home. The word settled heavily between them.

She cleared her throat, desperate to redirect the conversation. "It's a striking piece."

Brad walked past her, stopping just beside the fireplace. "It was my mother's favorite." His voice carried a hint of something distant, something almost vulnerable.

Clair stole a glance at him, momentarily distracted from the dangerous pull he had on her. "She had good taste."

A slow smile tugged at his lips, but there was something behind it, something unreadable. "That she did."

The moment stretched between them, thick with something unsaid. Clair forced herself to shift the focus.

"The job," she said, gripping the folder she had brought. "Your father—"

"Is expecting you." Brad's smile widened as he gestured toward the door. "But we have time. Would you like a drink first?"

She hesitated.

Brad took a step closer, his proximity making her aware of every nerve in her body. "Just a drink, Clair."

She exhaled, knowing she should say no, but somehow, she followed him anyway.

***

The sitting room was just as refined as the rest of the house, but the air here felt different. More lived in. A decanter of amber liquid sat on the bar cart beside an arrangement of fresh orchids.

Brad poured himself a glass, then raised an eyebrow at her. "Whiskey?"

She shook her head. "Just water, thanks."

He smirked but obliged, handing her a crystal glass before settling into the plush armchair across from her.

"So, what do you do when you're not saving lives?"

Again with the surprising questions. She really had to get used to his style, this kind of repeated shock couldn't possibly be good for her heart.

"I…" she hesitated. "I like to read."

Brad leaned forward, intrigued. "Fiction or nonfiction?"

"Fiction," she admitted. "Though I haven't had much time lately."

His smile softened. "Life gets in the way."

She nodded, looking down at her hands. "Yeah, it does."

The weight of the moment pressed between them, an unspoken understanding.

Brad leaned back, studying her. "You don't talk much about yourself, do you?"

Clair met his gaze, caught in the intensity of it. "Not usually."

"Why's that?"

Because I have a husband. Because I have a daughter. Because talking about myself means revealing parts of my life I shouldn't be sharing with you.

She forced a small smile. "Habit, I guess."

Brad didn't push. Instead, he set his drink down and stood. "Come on. My father's waiting."

The spell was broken. Clair exhaled, relieved and disappointed all at once.

As she followed him down the hall, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had stepped onto dangerous ground.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn't sure she wanted to turn back.

Brad led Clair down a hallway that was somehow both grand and intimate. The floor-to-ceiling windows let in the late afternoon sun, casting golden streaks across the polished wood floors. The walls were adorned with paintings—some abstract, others strikingly personal.

At the end of the corridor, he pushed open a heavy wooden door, revealing a room filled with the scent of aged leather and faint cigar smoke. Inside, an elderly man lounged in a high-backed armchair, wearing a silk robe that looked as though it belonged to a retired king. A glass of bourbon sat on the table beside him, and despite the undeniable resemblance to Brad—the same piercing blue eyes, the same confident smirk—Jonas Whitmore had an air of mischief that immediately put Clair on edge.

"Well, well," Jonas drawled, eyeing her with interest. "So this is the lovely woman my son has been circling like a wolf for the past two weeks."

Clair arched an eyebrow, glancing at Brad, who merely smirked. "That's not exactly how I'd describe it."

"Oh, please," Jonas waved a dismissive hand. "The man had flowers delivered. That's practically a marriage proposal in Callahan terms."

Clair let out a soft laugh, relaxing slightly.

Brad rolled his eyes. "Dad, you promised to behave."

Jonas grinned. "And you promised me a nurse who wouldn't nag me about my drinking. Looks like we're both liars."

Clair crossed her arms, playing along. "I haven't agreed to anything yet, Mr. Callahan."

"Jonas," he corrected smoothly. "And don't worry, sweetheart, I'm very persuasive."

Clair shot Brad a pointed look. "I think that runs in the family."

Brad chuckled, but Jonas leaned forward, a devilish gleam in his eye. "Tell me, are you single?"

Clair nearly choked on air. She opened her mouth, but Brad beat her to it.

"Dad."

"What?" Jonas shrugged. "I have a right to know if my nurse is going to be distracted by a love life. It affects my health care."

Brad scrubbed a hand down his face. "For the love of Romeo, dad—she's here for work, not speed dating."

Clair swallowed the lump in her throat and forced a smile. "My focus is always on my patients, Jonas."

He grinned. "Smart and diplomatic. I like you already."

"I have some business to attend to in town," Brad declared. "But Clair, feel free to look around and get used to your patient.

She spent the next half hour discussing his medical history, his previous caregivers, and what he expected in a private nurse. Despite his flirtations, Jonas was sharp and charming, making it easy to forget the tension simmering between her and Brad.

Eventually, the housekeeper appeared, announcing that Jonas' evening tea was ready, giving Clair the perfect opportunity to excuse herself.

By the time she came back to his room, old Jonas was already fast asleep.

Looking at his peaceful face as he slept she couldn't help but feel she wouldn't be experiencing such bliss any time soon.

But she just as quickly cast off the thought. No, no no, negative thinking would be bad for her new patient, she thought to herself.

Clair couldn't shake the feeling of curiosity about the rest of the house and decided to give herself the grand tour. The housekeeper had informed her that she'd be off to the market and would be back in an hour.

This was her chance.

Clair's eyes wandered, taking in the tall archways, the artwork, the way everything seemed intentionally designed yet effortlessly lived-in.

She turned a corner, and something caught her eye at the end of the corridor—a slightly ajar door. Without thinking, she walked towards it.

When she got to the door, Clair hesitated before pushing it open fully. The moment she stepped inside, she knew she had made a mistake.

The room was undeniably "his".

Dark wood and deep navy tones filled the space, the king-sized bed neatly made but undeniably well-used. A faint, familiar cologne lingered in the air. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the estate grounds, allowing the dying sunlight to cast long shadows across the room. A sleek desk sat against the far wall, littered with papers and a single tumbler of whiskey, as though abandoned mid-thought.

And then there was the photograph.

Sitting on a nightstand, framed in silver. A woman.

Clair stepped closer, unable to stop herself. She was beautiful—dark-haired, with a knowing smile. Not posed, not stiff, just natural. A moment captured in time.

A voice broke through her thoughts.

"Finding anything interesting?"

She spun around, her heart hammering.

"Dammit!"

Brad stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"I uuh—" She swallowed. "I didn't mean to—"

"Didn't mean to walk into my bedroom?" His voice was teasing, but there was something deeper underneath.

She felt the heat creeping up her neck. "You said I could look around."

Brad stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft 'click'. "I didn't expect you to take it so literally."

His gaze flickered to the photograph, then back to her. "That was my mother."

Clair's breath caught. "Oh."

"She died when I was sixteen." His voice was low, carrying the weight of something she wasn't sure she should pry into.

"I'm sorry."

Brad studied her for a long moment, then took a step closer. "You're not what I expected."

Her pulse quickened. "What did you expect?"

He tilted his head slightly, eyes trailing over her face. "Someone who would've turned me down by now."

Clair's breath caught. "I DID turn you down."

Brad smirked. "You tried."

The air between them shifted, thick with something dangerous.

She should leave. She should turn around, walk out, put space between them.

But she didn't.

Brad lifted a hand, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. The touch was featherlight, but it sent a jolt through her. His fingers lingered just a second too long, his thumb grazing her cheek.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured.

Her lips parted, but no words came.

He took another step, closing the space between them. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, an intoxicating mix of whiskey and cedar filling her lungs.

And then he kissed her.

It was slow at first, testing, teasing—his lips brushing over hers, coaxing rather than demanding. But the moment she responded, the moment she melted against him, the restraint snapped.

His hands slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him. A deep, shuddering sigh escaped her as she fisted his shirt, holding onto him like she was afraid to let go.

A sharp knock shattered the moment.

"Mr. Bradford?" A voice called through the door.

They broke apart, breathless.

Clair took a step back, pressing a hand to her lips as if to erase what had just happened.

Brad let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair before calling out, "Yeah?"

"The driver is ready to take Miss Clair home."

The fading sound of footsteps walking away, and then silence.

Then, Brad smirked, though there was something unreadable in his eyes. "Looks like you're saved."

Clair's heart pounded. She turned quickly, forcing herself toward the door, needing to escape the intensity of the moment.

But as she walked away, she could still feel his touch lingering on her skin.

And she knew—this was a line she couldn't uncross.