6
Wyatt
The liquor burns a path down my throat, glass already half-empty in my shaking hand. I stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, the city landscape blurring through unshed tears I refuse to acknowledge. Not for Alyssa. Not for Zeke. Definitely not for the way my body betrayed me in the car with Gray. My dick is still half-hard, a fucked-up reminder that apparently being manhandled by my bodyguard does more for me than my girlfriend ever did.
I toss back the rest of the whiskey, welcoming the burn. The apartment feels too big, too empty, too pristine with its minimalist furniture and gray walls. Dad’s decorator picked everything. I just live here, floating through spaces that never feel like mine.
The elevator chimes from the private foyer. Gray. Following me up like the dutiful guard dog he is. My pulse jumps.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Alyssa’s words from last night flash through my mind. “You should mess with him. See if you can make him break character. I bet there’s a real person under all that…muscle.” She’d been talking about Gray, eyes trailing over his body with that predatory look she gets when she sees something she wants. Now I know why she felt so comfortable openly checking out another man in front of me. I never fucking mattered.
Heavy footsteps approach from the foyer. I don’t turn around, just reach for the bottle of whiskey and pour another two fingers. The glass is halfway to my lips when Gray’s reflection appears in the window. He’s standing several feet back, still in that perfect military rest position that makes me want to scream.
“Wyatt,” he says, his voice low and careful. “About what happened in the car—”
“Save it.” I cut him off, not wanting his apology. Not wanting him to take back the one real moment we’ve had since we met. “I’m fine. You’re fine. It’s fine.”
“It wasn’t professional. I crossed a line.”
I turn, leaning back against the counter, studying him through narrowed eyes. Even now, after everything, he’s still perfectly put together. Not a wrinkle in his black button-down, not a hair out of place, his face blank as a fucking slate. But I saw the cracks earlier. I felt them.
“Professional,” I repeat, the word bitter on my tongue. “Is that what keeps you up at night? Worrying about being professional?”
His jaw tightens. “I’m trying to apologize.”
“And I’m trying to drink.” I raise my glass in a mocking toast. “Seems like we’re both failing.”
Gray takes a step forward, then stops himself, hands clasping behind his back again. Restraining. Holding back. It makes me want to push him harder.
“I should go.” He turns toward the door.
“Why?” I ask, setting down my glass. “So you can report back to Dad that you left me safe and sound? Tell him all about howhis son’s girlfriend was fucking his best friend? I’m sure he’d love to add that to the list of my failures.”
Gray faces me again. “That’s not my job.”
“Oh?” I move around the kitchen island, closing some of the distance between us. “What is your job exactly? Besides following me around and judging everything I do?”
“My job is to keep you safe.”
“From what? Bad decisions?” I laugh, harsh and hollow. “Little late for that.”
Something flickers across his face. Frustration, maybe. Or pity. I hate both options.
“You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” I continue, closing more distance. “You run your little marathons at five in the morning, take your ice baths, eat your perfect meals. So disciplined. So put together.” I’m right in front of him now, close enough to smell the clean, sharp scent of him. “But I see through it.”
His eyes narrow. “See through what?”
“Your whole act.” I gesture at his body. “This perfect soldier routine. The other bodyguards talk about you, you know. About what a weirdly disciplined maniac you are. Five-mile runs before dawn. Ice baths. No drinking. No dating. No fun. What are you suppressing with all that control, Gray? What happens if you let go?”
His breathing changes, so subtle I wouldn’t notice if I weren’t standing this close. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” I tilt my head, studying his face. “I think you’re even more of a mess than I am. You just hide it better.”
“Enough.”
“Why? Does it bother you that I can see it? That I can see through the perfect façade to the fucking disaster underneath?”
