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In one swift motion, all the air leaves my body.
How is it that someone who knows nothing about me, seems to know me better than most? How can she see me so clearly?
And how can I use this to my advantage?
I know what you’re thinking…My god this man is a fucking piece of work.And you’re not wrong. But this is my life we’re talking about. And there are very few lines I won’t cross to reclaim my seat at the top.
What’s one broken heart in a line of many?
“What’s in the bags?” I change the topic entirely, giving her just enough to know she’s right without having to actually say the words.
“This and that.” She shrugs.
“This and that?”
“Yep. You hungry?” She glances up at me when I tug open the door to her building.
“When am I not?”
She smiles and nods.
“Then you are in for a treat, Treyton Tyler.”
“Why do people do that?” I ask a genuine question I’ve always kind of wondered.
“Do what?”
We walk side by side toward the elevators and I don’t miss the gazes trained our way.
Good, let them see.
“Call celebrities by their full name? I mean, when you don’t know them, I get it. But once you know them, wouldn’t it make more sense to just call them by their first name.”
“You’re right.” She shakes her head, laughing at herself. “Sorry, Treyton.”
I narrow my gaze at her.
“Trey,” she corrects…Again.
“Here.” I take the bags from her as the elevator doors slide open, wishing I had thought to do it sooner.
“Thank you.” We step inside together.
“Hang here.” I glance toward Micah. “I’ll text you when I’m ready to leave.” He gives me a swift nod seconds before the elevator doors slide closed.
“You’re going to make him sit in the lobby?” Clarke seems rather annoyed by this.
“Don’t worry, he’s getting paid a small fortune to sit in the lobby. He’ll be fine.”
“Still. Would you want to just sit in the lobby?”
“What’s the alternative? You want to invite him up to your place?”
“I guess you have a point.” She blows out a small breath, seeming to let it go. “So, tell me, what are your feelings on chicken carbonara?”
“I can’t say I’ve had it,” I admit. “It’s a pasta dish, yes?”
“You don’t like pasta?” she guesses.
