“Thank you, ma’am, but I prefer to remain on duty.” It’s a professional response, but also a true one. I’d rather stand than make small talk with the family.
“As you wish.” She turns her attention back to Wyatt. “How’s Alyssa, darling? We haven’t seen her in ages. Her father was asking after you at the foundation dinner last week.”
Wyatt makes a noncommittal sound. “She’s fine.”
“You should bring her to dinner next weekend,” Mr. Kingsley suggests. “The Palmers are important business associates, son. It wouldn’t hurt to nurture that relationship.”
“Whatever,” Wyatt mutters, picking at his food.
I take up my position outside the French doors to give them some privacy. Through the glass, I hear fragments of conversation. Mrs. Kingsley’s gentle probing, Mr. Kingsley’s attempts at engagement, Wyatt’s monosyllabic responses.
My thoughts begin to drift back to my conversation with Daniela, and I realize I’ve made a mistake agreeing to stay. This job is a minefield, and Wyatt Kingsley is holding the detonator. But I gave Dani my word, and that still means something to me.
One more chance. That’s all I’m giving this job. All I’m givinghim.
4
Wyatt
The gates of my parents’ estate disappear in the rearview mirror, and I can finally breathe again. Not that it helps much with Gray sitting next to me like a human statue. Perfect fucking posture even in the backseat of a car. I drum my fingers against my thigh, the last hour replaying in my head. My parents forcing me to give this arrangement “another chance.” Another chance to be treated like a child. Another chance for Gray to report my every move back to them.
My phone screen stays stubbornly empty. No texts from Alyssa or Zeke since last night. I lean forward, tapping the partition.
“Jeff, change of plans. Take me to Alyssa’s place.”
“Yes, Mr. Kingsley,” my driver responds, already adjusting our route.
Gray shifts beside me, the leather seat creaking beneath him. His gaze flicks to my phone, then back to the road ahead, saying nothing. Always watching. Always fucking observing.
The silence stretches between us like a rubber band ready to snap. I wait for him to ask why the change, say some bullshit about scheduling. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, breathing, existing, irritating me with every silent second.
“Don’t think this is over,” I say finally, my voice cutting through the quiet. “What happened at lunch was just a temporary setback. I’ll make sure you get fired.”
He turns his head slightly, those cold gray-blue eyes regarding me with the same expression he’d give a petulant toddler. “If that’s what you want, Mr. Kingsley.”
“Stop calling me that,” I snap. “It’s weird and formal and—just stop.”
“What would you prefer?”
“Wyatt. Just Wyatt. Like a normal fucking person.”
Gray nods once. “All right, Wyatt.”
The way he says my name makes me want to scream. There’s no emotion in it, no hint that we’re two humans sharing the same air. I stare out the window, watching the city blur past, but I can still feel his presence beside me, solid and immovable like a boulder in my space.
“You don’t get it, do you?” I turn back to him. “You’re not going to win this. I always get what I want.”
“This isn’t a competition.”
I laugh, sharp and bitter. “Everything’s a competition. Life lesson for you.”
“I’m just doing my job,” he says, and I swear his voice has the slightest edge to it now. Progress. “The job your father hired me for.”
“Right, babysitting. Must be fulfilling for someone your age. What are you, forty?”
His jaw tightens. “I’m thirty-one.”
“Bullshit.” I look him over. The hardness around his eyes, the way he holds himself. It speaks of someone who’s seen more shit than most people twice his age.
