““I gesture to his jacket. “Do you really think you’re qualified to give fashion advice?” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought I looked like an absolute tool—now I’m sure of it.” “Did the producers pick that out for you?” “Yes. I’m supposed to ride down to the castle on horseback. Make my grand entrance.” Briskly, his long fingers unbutton the jacket. He shrugs it off, dropping it on the ground, revealing a snug white T-shirt and gloriously sculpted arms. “Better?” “Yes,” I squeak. The teasing smirk comes back, then he grips the back of his T-shirt, pulling it off. And my mouth falls open at the sight of warm skin, perfect brown nipples, and the ridges and swells of muscles up and down his torso. “What do you think of this?” he asks. I think this is worse than I thought. Henry Pembrook isn’t a Fiyero—he’s a Willoughby. A John Willoughby from Sense and Sensibility—thrilling, charming, unpredictable, and seductive. Marianne Dashwood learned the hard way that if you play with a heartbreaker, you can’t be surprised when your heart gets shattered into a thousand pieces. I shrug, trying to seem cool and unaffected. “Might look a bit too ‘Putin’ on the horse.” He nods, then puts his shirt back on, and my stomach swirls with a strange mix of relief and disappointment.””
