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All I could do was watch him pour the juice to the halfway point in the glass and fill the rest with vodka that he’d gotten from the bar. He carried the bottle and juice container to the island, sitting in front of his tablet, which he swiped while he sipped.
He was either extremely mad at me for something or he didn’t want to be touched.
I’d get to the bottom of that.
First, I needed to understand what kind of emotional state he was in and why he was going for the vodka this early in the day.
“Fine?” I said softly. “That’s all you’re going to say to me?” I walked a few steps closer. “No ‘good morning’? Or, ‘How does breakfast sound?’ Or, ‘How about a cup of coffee, Jovana? I learned during our Italian dinner date that you can’t function without it, so I brewed a fresh pot.’”
He slowly looked up. “Coffee’s over there.” He nodded toward his fancy machine, which I didn’t dare touch, it was so intimidating. “Help yourself.”
When he attempted to glance down again, I replied, “Come on, Grayson. You’ve got to give me more than that. Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“What I’m thinking?” He laughed, a sound that told me he didn’t find this funny at all. “I’m thinking my personal business is once again splattered all over social fucking media. I’m thinking the whole world is going to have a comment about our relationship and I don’t want to know what they have to say—the good, the bad, or the goddamn ugly. I’m thinking I’m already over this and it’s just started.” He swished the contents around in his glass. “How’s that for a little truth?”
Grayson was a private person. Sloane was too.
I could respect that.
Not everyone chose a career like I had that required so much transparency online. So I could understand why he wouldn’t want his tea aired or to read the opinions of our followers.
The positive could be as heavy as the negative sometimes, and it was a lot to bear.
Maybe I needed to shift topics and discuss something that didn’t make him want to drink so early in the morning.
Like addressing what had happened between us last night.
I moved to the island, stopping directly across from him, and poured myself a glass of juice. I was close enough that I could rest my hand on his shoulder, and after debating it for a few seconds, I decided that was the best way to enter this conversation and draped my wrist across his bulging muscle. “Want a little of my truth? I haven’t slept that good or that late in years. That has everything to do with you. What time did you get up?”
“From your bed or mine?”
Huh?
“Mine,” I replied.
“A few minutes after you fell asleep.”
But I was positive he’d spent the whole night with me.
Of course, there was no way to know that—I’d been dead to the world—but I couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t stay with me.
“Why did you leave?”
He shrugged my hand off, my fingers suspended in the air before I pulled them down to my side. “Because I shouldn’t have even lain there after our shower.”
Even though he looked away, I still searched his eyes, waiting for the answer to hit me.
And when he finally looked back at me, I saw the coldness.
The irritation.
The vulnerability that he showed last night was gone, and the side of Grayson that was completely shut off to everything except for the glass of vodka in his hand was back.
“I don’t get why you’d say that.”
He shook his head, sighing as if the conversation were wearing his patience down to the bone. “When I told you that you can’t get emotionally attached to me, I couldn’t have been any clearer. If you want incredible sex over the next year, I’m your guy. But, Jovana, I’m not someone you should fall in love with. I’m not built that way, and the second you climbed on that bed last night and wrapped your arms around me to cuddle—” He wiped some invisible wetness off his lips. “Shit, that’s not me. That’s not what I want.” His eyes narrowed. “And that’s not what this is ever going to turn into.”
Each syllable he spoke caused my throat to tighten.
