One side of his mouth twitches like he knows that’s bullshit but is nice enough not to call me on it.“Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you around while they bring everything in.”
I follow him toward the front door, trying not to look like a country mouse who’s wandered into a cat’s castle by mistake.
The foyer alone is about the size of Zoe’s entire downstairs.
My boots hit pale wood floors that gleam softly under warm recessed lighting. There’s an enormous staircase with black railing curving up to the second floor, a light fixture that looks like floating gold branches, and somewhere in the distance, I hear the hollow echo of movers’ footsteps disappearing into a house so big it has acoustics like a cathedral.
I stop dead just inside the doorway.
Grayson glances back at me. “You okay?”
“Think so.” I tip my head back, taking in the ceiling that feels roughly nine miles above me. “Just trying not to pass out from the absurdity of this place.”
A quiet laugh leaves him before he seems to remember he’s trying to be a good host.That professional mask slides right back into place so fast I almost think I imagined it.
“This way,” he says.
He leads me into the kitchen first, and of course it’s obscene. Not in a gaudy way. In a sleek, manly, I-have-too-much-money way. There are two islands,two,and a walk-in refrigerator the size of my college dorm room. Glass-front cabinets hang above matte black counters, and a built-in espresso machine calls my name from across the expanse.
My eyes snag on the second sink. “Why does one kitchen need this many sinks?”
His mouth twitches again. “I honestly have no idea. It came with the house.”
I hum like that is somehow normal. He’s rich enough to own an unnecessary copper sink and not even feel strongly about it.
He gestures around the room. “Help yourself to anything you want. If there are foods you like, brands you prefer, snacks, coffee, whatever, let me know and I’ll send for them.”
Send for them.Like he’s a duke in the eighteen hundreds dispatching someone on horseback for my preferred granola bars.“That’s not necessary,” I say automatically.
“It is if you live here.”
There’s no edge in the words. No flirtation either. Just that maddeningly steady, CEO-calm tone of his, like this is an onboarding process and I’m a new executive being briefed on the facilities.
I nod, because I don’t know what else to do when an astoundingly hot former NFL player tells me he’ll send for my groceries.
He shows me the pantry, the office, a laundry room bigger than any bedroom I had growing up. Then he walks me through the living room, where a massive sectional faces a stone fireplace, the biggest TV I’ve ever seen in a home, and a wall of windows overlooking the backyard.
Snow dusts the edges of the patio furniture outside. Beyond it, the pool cuts through the yard like something from a resort.
I stop again.
“That’s your backyard?”
His shoulder brushes mine as he steps up beside me at the glass, and the contact is brief, accidental, harmless.
It feels like a lightning strike.
“Yes,” he says.
I clear my throat. “Right. Of course. Silly me. Why have a normal backyard when you could have a luxury wellness retreat?”
This time his laugh is fuller, lower, and a little less guarded. I hate that it makes my cheeks heat.
“The living room, game room, and patio are always open to you,” he says, slipping back into that same maddeningly careful tone. “I use the pool in the mornings for laps before work, but otherwise it’s available.”
“Mornings?” I ponder before I can stop the stupid word from coming out of my mouth.
His eyes cut to me.
