Lila
He stood in the massive doorway of his Penthouse in a pair of perfect gray athletic pants that looked softer than her pillow, and a cream colored sweater that hung off his shoulders like it had been knitted for him, while the high neck flipped up to brush his nape at the back. He'd pushed the sleeves up his forearms. His hair was mussed, falling across his eyes.
His feet were bare.
And huge.
Lila's mouth was open. She needed to close it. But he was…beautiful.
"Delilah?" he said. "Are you okay?" Something about his voice sounded a little off—a little too bright, but she didn't have the braincells left to figure it out.
He was gorgeous. She swallowed. Hard.
"Delilah?" He sounded worried now. She definitely needed to speak. Speak, dammit!
"You're barefoot," she blurted.
