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He slants a glance my way. “After you leave. I work out, shower, eat breakfast, and then head into the office.”
“Why after I leave?”
His eyes are still on me. Mine stay straight ahead.
“You try to avoid me. I’m not going to make it more difficult for you.”
“I left for work at seven before we got married.”
I dance around what he’s really saying, and he doesn’t press the point.
We reach the next landing. Crew pauses. I halt too, watching as he grabs the railing with one hand and grabs his ankle with his other. He balances on one leg and bends the other back.
“What’s wrong?”
“I have an old knee injury. Just need to stretch for a minute.”
“A knee injury from what?”
“I played football in high school.”
I snort. “Of courseyou did. The patron sport of jerky jocks everywhere.”
“That’s awfully judgmental.”
“Iamawfully judgmental.”
“Yeah.” He smirks. “I’ve noticed.”
I don’t like the familiar way he’s looking at me. And I like it too much. “So what happened?”
“Huh?”
“Your knee. What happened to it?”
“Oh. Chris Jenkins hit me with an illegal tackle junior year. I twisted a tendon, and it still flares up sometimes.” He shakes his head with a smile. “Asshole.”
“Is there film footage of you getting knocked on your ass?”
“No.”
“I think you’re lying.”
“I think you’ll never know.”
“You should have played a non-contact sport in high school. Like…crew, maybe?”
Helaughs. And it’s not a laugh I’ve heard from him before. It’s a warm, rough, masculine sound that feels like standing in front of a fire drinking hot chocolate. A comforting burn. “Pretty proud of yourself for coming up with that, Red?”
I smile. “A little.”
We climb the final few flights in silence. If Crew’s knee is still bothering him, he doesn’t say anything about it. He keeps up with me easily as we reach the top observation deck and glimpse Paris spread out in front of us.
“Wow.” I’m used to closing off my emotions and reactions. I’m always ready with a right answer or a snappy retort, never caught off guard or confused. Neverappreciatingwhere I am or what I’m doing. It’s exhausting, and a guard I usually only let down when I’m alone.
I never expected to be myself around Crew Kensington. I’ve seen plenty of people navigate arranged marriages with minimal interaction. I expected us to be no different. It’s disconcerting, realizing we might be. That Ilikehim. Might have chosen to marry him even if his net worth was half of what it is—or nonexistent.
A couple of girls who look like they’re in college ask Crew to take a picture of them. I lean against the railing and eyeball their interaction. Everywhere we go, Crew seems to command female attention. The women at Proof, Hannah Garner, Olivia Spencer, the blonde tennis player.
