“Thank you.” I sit back, relieved for now at least.
Dad adjusts his cufflinks and changes the subject with corporate efficiency. “So, tell me about Mr. Holt. Daniela mentioned he’s taking some personal days.”
My heart rate spikes at Gray’s name. “Yeah, just three days. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Is everything all right? You two seemed to have reached an understanding after our discussion on Saturday.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood. An understanding. Is that what we reached when he came all over my hand and asked me to jerk myself off with it?
“Everything’s fine,” I say, keeping my voice even. “We figured it out.”
“Good. I was concerned after that lunch, but it seems like you’ve both put aside your differences. I’m proud of you for working through it instead of having him replaced.”
My nails dig into my palms under the desk. If only he knew. I imagine his face if I told him the truth: Hey Dad, good news! I’m not fighting with my bodyguard anymore. In fact, we bonded over handjobs. Progress, right?
“It’s nothing,” I mutter. “He probably just needed some time off.”
And I know exactly why. After what happened between us, Gray had brought me a wet towel and helped me clean up with clinical detachment. Then he’d murmured something about needing to check in with Daniela and left my apartment without meeting my eyes once. I wasn’t surprised that he left, but it was that detachment that, for some reason, hurt most.
I haven’t heard from him since. Not a text, not a call. Nothing but the notification from Daniela that Gray would be taking a few personal days and that a guard named Sam would be covering in his absence.
I know exactly what Gray’s going to say when I see him tomorrow. That it was a mistake. That we crossed a line. That it can never happen again. That it was the stress of the situation, my emotional vulnerability, his momentary lapse in judgment.
But it wasn’t a mistake. Not to me. It was the first real thing I’ve felt in longer than I can remember. The first time I wasn’t just going through the motions, playing the role of Wyatt Kingsley, heir apparent, trust fund party boy. For those minutes with Gray, I was just…me. Stripped down to nothing but want and need.
“Wyatt.” Dad’s voice snaps me back to reality. “You’re drifting again.”
“Sorry, what were you saying?”
“I was discussing your internship. The program starts in three weeks, and I’ve arranged for you to work with Marcus in the acquisitions department.”
“Right, the internship.” I shift in my seat and try to look interested.
“This is important, son. You’ll be taking over the company someday. At least I hope you will. It’s time you started learning the ropes from the ground up.”
We both know “ground up” means a cushy office with a view, an assistant to fetch my coffee, and enough busywork to make it look like I’ve earned my place. Nothing like the real ground up that Gray probably experienced—military barracks, desert sand, actual fucking consequences for mistakes.
“I know, Dad. I get it.” I nod, just wanting this conversation to be over. “Marcus, acquisitions, three weeks. I’ll be there.”
His expression softens. “I know you’ve had a rough few days. But I’m trying to help you build a future here, son. A purpose beyond parties and socialite girlfriends.”
And isn’t that fucking ironic. I’ve spent years running from purpose, from responsibility, from anything that feels too much like my father’s life. Now I’m sitting here agreeing to step right into it, just to escape a conversation I can’t focus on.
“I appreciate it,” I say, because it’s what he wants to hear.
And part of me does appreciate it. I know I have it easier than most. Trust fund, connections, safety nets for my safety nets. I should be more grateful, more dutiful, more deserving of the Kingsley name.
But right now, all I can think about is Gray and whether he’ll look me in the eye tomorrow. Whether he’ll pretend nothing happened or acknowledge the shift between us. Whether he’ll stay or go.
“One more thing,” Dad says, checking his watch. “Don’t forget the family dinner this Sunday.”
Monthly family dinner. The tradition Mom insists keeps us connected despite Dad’s sixty-hour workweeks and my determined efforts to stay as far from home as possible.
“I’ll be there,” I promise.
“Good.” He stands, signaling that our meeting is over. “And bring Mr. Holt. As a guest. Your mother mentioned she’d like to properly meet him, especially now that you two are getting along.”
Fuck. The thought of sitting through a formal dinner with Gray after what happened between us makes my stomachclench. Three courses of my mother’s probing questions while I try not to remember the feel of Gray’s cock against my tongue.
