By minute two, my body has gone numb, and my thoughts drift to Wyatt fucking Kingsley and the stunt I pulled last night. Carrying him out like a sack of potatoes wasn’t in my job description, but neither was letting the trust fund brat get arrested for whatever his friends were about to do. There’s a line between protecting someone’s safety and protecting their dignity. I chose the former.
The timer beeps. I haul myself out, skin red and tingling, and towel off quickly. No time to linger. The gym opens at 0630, and I need to be first in line.
A few hours later, muscles pleasantly sore and mind clear, I’m in front of Wyatt’s luxury high-rise. The doorman recognizes me, nodding as I pass through to the private elevator that leads directly to Wyatt’s penthouse. I have a key card, but I still ring the doorbell. Professional courtesy.
No answer.
I ring again, longer this time.
Still nothing.
With a sigh, I use the key card and let myself in. “Mr. Kingsley,” I call out, my voice echoing through the massive space. Everything is sleek, modern, and costs more than I make in a year. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase a view of Central Park that people kill for. Literally, in some parts of the world.
No response. Not surprising. After last night’s bender, he’s probably still unconscious.
I move through the apartment methodically. Living room: empty except for an overturned glass on the coffee table. Kitchen: spotless because he never cooks. Dining room: table covered in mail he never opens. Finally, the bedroom.
The door is ajar. I push it open without knocking.
Wyatt is sprawled across a California king bed, one arm flung over his eyes, sheets tangled around his waist. He’s shirtless, his lean chest rising and falling in the deep rhythm of sleep or unconsciousness. Hard to tell the difference after the amount he drank.
“Mr. Kingsley,” I say louder. “Time to get up.”
He groans, rolling away from my voice.
“Your parents are expecting us by noon.”
Another groan, followed by a muffled “Fuck off.”
I cross the room and throw open the blackout curtains. Sunlight floods in, harsh and unforgiving. Wyatt hisses like I’ve thrown holy water on a vampire.
“Jesus Christ!” He sits up, squinting against the light. His hair sticks up in every direction, and dark circles shadow his eyes. “What the fuck?”
“We leave in thirty minutes.”
I turn away to give him some privacy, but his voice stops me.
“You fucking embarrassed me. In front of my friends.”
I face him again. “Your friends were about to do lines in a club with cameras everywhere and your father’s name hanging over your head. I did my job.” My voice stays even. “Thirty minutes.”
His glare could melt steel. “Your job isn’t to manhandle me like I’m some—”
“My job,” I cut him off, “is to protect you. Sometimes that means protecting you from yourself. Twenty-nine minutes.”
I close the door behind me, cutting off whatever retort he was about to fling. Let him stew. Maybe anger will motivate him to move faster.
Twenty-eight minutes later—he’s nothing if not spitefully punctual—Wyatt emerges. He’s showered and dressed in designer clothes, but his eyes are bloodshot, and his movements are stiff.
He brushes past me to the elevator without a word.
The silence follows us through the lobby and into the back of the waiting Cadillac Escalade. Wyatt’s driver, an older man named Jeff, nods to me in the rearview mirror. I nod back. Professional courtesy between people who put up with Wyatt Kingsley for a living.
The car pulls into traffic. Wyatt stares out the window, angling his body away from mine. His jaw works as if he’s grinding his teeth. If he’s trying to make me uncomfortable with the silence, he’s failed. I spent eighteen months at a desert outpost where the most exciting conversation was about sand getting in places sand has no business being. This is nothing.
The Kingsley estate sprawls across several acres just outside the city, a monument to old money and new influence. Wrought iron gates open automatically as we approach, the car crunching up a gravel drive lined with old trees. The house itself is massive, a colonial revival style with white columns and enough windows to make the cleaning staff contemplate career changes.
As we pull to a stop, Wyatt finally breaks his silence. “Don’t think this is over.”
