Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
I pause to appreciate the perfection of the cabinet before hopping off the counter with a little more coordination than I knew I had in me. Score! Gray’s eyes follow me to the living room, and they’re hot on my back as I open another box.
My body temperature rises as I play my broken arm story back through my mind and wish I hadn’t shared that with him. He doesn’t need to know anything about me, and God knows he doesn’t deserve to have that kind of access to my life. Men like him are gatherers and hunters. They gather information, then hunt you down with it.
I glance inside the next box and shove it away. I don’t want to ask him for help, but there’s no way around this one. “You’re going to have to deal with this one. It goes to the kitchen.”
“Too heavy for you?”
I look up and sigh. “No, it’s too peanutty for me. I’d rather not go into anaphylaxis here and have to call the paramedics while gasping for air.” I pause. “Not that I couldn’t do it.”
“Of course you could,” he deadpans, hopping off the chair. This time, I don’t think fast enough to keep myself from getting an eyeful.
Ho-ly shit.
Gray’s body wasn’t built. It was crafted. Forged. His chest is barreled, and his abdomen is stonelike. His legs are just short of tree trunks—thick thighs and strong calves. Scars and bruises accent his skin as much as the dark ink that embraces his left upper leg.
He’s a machine that moves with an oddly refined grace.
Even the devil was once an angel.
I gulp and refocus on the box, contemplating whether to move it myself. But Gray is at my side before I can get the courage to go through with it.
“Where do you want it?” he asks.
“That should go in the spice cabinet above the coffee maker.” I hold my breath as he reaches in front of me and grasps the jar. Whiffs of his body wash caress me almost criminally. It lingers in the air long after he’s walked away, and I mentally berate myself for noticing it. “Open a few drawers while you’re in there and let me know what you think.”
“Searching for external validation?”
“Some of us didn’t have our needs met as children.” An unwelcome blush colors my cheeks, betraying my instructions to be cool. I make a face like I’m being a smart-ass, so he doesn’t weaponize that against me later either. “Anyway, I don’t care whether you like it or not. You can move stuff around if you hate it.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Fucker. I turn to the rest of the boxes and make a production out of sorting through them.
His clothes are crammed into two boxes, mostly T-shirts, shorts, and joggers. A couple of pairs of jeans. There are a few hoodies and a heavy coat, but aside from boxer briefs and socks, that’s about it. I’m not sure what I expected, but it strikes me as odd. Doesn’t he own a pair of pants or a dress shirt? A belt? A tie?
A phone rings and I turn to see if it’s mine, but before I can even reach for my bag, he’s answering his.
“Hello,” he says, his voice low. He licks his lips while he listens. “Are you kidding me? I thought it would be in my account this week.”
I fold his shirts, thinking he should really use fabric softener, and try not to listen.
“I can’t wait two weeks,” he says, his voice full of gravel that rakes across my skin. “You’ll have to figure it the fuck out.” He stares at the cabinets while he listens to whoever’s on the other side of the call. “Yeah, that’s not gonna work. I don’t care how you phrase it.”
Standing with the stack of shirts in my hands, I carry them to his bedroom. Gray’s voice carries through the apartment like a roll of thunder. It’s so distracting that I can’t even snoop around his room. Instead, I stand at his dresser, one hand gripping the top edge, and listen. Who is he talking to?
“That’s not my problem,” he says. “Call me back and tell me when I’ll have the money. I need at least half of it by the end of the week.”
The sound of what I assume is a phone hitting a countertop makes me grimace.
I unload the shirts into a drawer as quickly as I can and then return to the living room. My steps are hesitant, and I move as quietly as possible. His conversation doesn’t seem to have gone well, and I’m not sure what his mood will be like now.
He’s standing at the fridge when I enter, his back muscles flexing and his spine stiff. He’s pissed … and I have no idea what to do. I’m not asking him what’s going on because it’s none of my business, but Renn also said there were whispers about Gray having a gambling problem. If this involves the mob or an underground betting ring, I’m better off not knowing anything. I’ve watched enough movies to know that.