“I’m thirty-one,” he repeats.
Nine years older than me. It should be nothing. A blink. But sitting next to him, it feels like decades. Centuries. Like he was born in a different era where men were carved from stone instead of raised on social media and matcha lattes.
“Could’ve fooled me. You act like you’re ancient.”
“And you act like you’re sixteen.”
“Fuck you,” I spit the childish comeback. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“I know enough.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He sighs. “It means I’ve been where you are.”
“Right,” I scoff. “I’m sure you grew up with security details and a father who thinks you’re a constant disappointment. We’re practically twins.”
“No,” Gray concedes. “But I’ve made mistakes. Ones I couldn’t buy my way out of.”
I want to ask what mistakes, what secrets Mr. Perfect is hiding beneath his pressed shirts and military posture. But that would mean showing interest, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“Save the life lessons for someone who gives a shit.”
The car slows as we approach Alyssa’s building. It’s nice—modern glass and steel, doorman, private gym—but not as nice as mine. Not Kingsley-level nice.
“We’re here, Mr. Kingsley,” Jeff announces through the intercom.
“Thanks. Wait here,” I instruct, already reaching for the door handle.
Gray’s hand shoots out, not touching me but hovering close enough that I freeze.
“I’ll go in first.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s a luxury condo, not a war zone.”
“Protocol.” The word hangs between us like a wall.
“Your protocol can kiss my ass.” I push past him, shoving the door open and stepping onto the sidewalk.
Gray follows, moving with that fluid grace that makes me want to trip him just to see him stumble once. Just once, to prove he’s human.
The doorman recognizes me and nods us through to the elevator. Gray positions himself slightly behind me, scanning everything like there might be snipers hiding behind the potted plants. The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and we step inside. I press the button for the twelfth floor, then move to stand on the opposite side from Gray.
“You know,” I say as the doors close, “most people would have quit by now.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No shit. Most people have personalities.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps. It’s barely there, but I catch it. Another tiny crack in that perfect control. It’s becoming a game to me—how many reactions can I pull from him?
“You think this is the worst job I’ve ever had? After what I’ve done, what I’ve seen, this is nothing.”
“What, military stuff? Wow, you’re so tough.”
“It’s not about being tough.” For a second, something real flickers across his face. “It’s about perspective. And right now, your perspective is skewed.”
“Thanks, Dr. Phil. Really groundbreaking analysis.”
