I don't know what kind of deal Claude Lockheart made with the devil, but lately, he's been more annoying than ever. And I say that with the full force of someone who has shared the same roof with him long enough to know his quirks, flaws, and... shirtless tendencies.
The morning started off normal—by our bizarre standards anyway. I was sipping my coffee in peace, pretending to enjoy the quiet, when Claude barged into the kitchen like a damn runway model straight out of a fantasy romance cover. Shirtless.
Again.
And there it was: his stupid, sculpted, unfairly defined chest just out there like it paid rent.
"You're not wearing a shirt again," I said flatly, refusing to look directly at him.
He leaned casually on the counter, his biceps flexing a little too conveniently. "I didn't realize we had a dress code now."
"We do," I said, still not looking. "And it's called have decency and stop trying to be a Greek god in the kitchen."
