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)
“You’re good with this, too, Astrid?” Renn asks.
She glances at me. “Yeah. I apologize for the drama. I feel goofy about that.”
“Not a problem, Astrid. It’s a bit of a problem for Gray, but not you.” Renn grins at me. “Behave, Adler.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Good night,” Renn says, and then he’s gone.
I heave a breath, relief washing over me in waves. I’m not entirely sure how I managed to pull this off. However, the important thing is that I did, and it’s done—and money should be hitting my account soon.
Astrid seems relieved, too.
“I’ll call you tomorrow and find a good time to get together,” she says.
“For what?”
She grins with a little mischievous smile. “So I can get your life together, Adler. Your ass is mine now.”
My stomach tightens, but not out of frustration. “You think so?”
“Oh, I know so … sweetheart.”
With a smile that dances through my veins, she turns and leaves me standing beneath the magnolia trees.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Astrid
I lower the speed of my walking pad and slow my pace to cool down after a five-mile almost-jog.
The bright sun and clear sky give me a dose of optimism and vitamin D. The guest bedroom that serves as my home office is just big enough for my standing desk, bookshelves, and a small sideboard that holds my printer and office supplies. It would feel bigger if I could strip the nineties wallpaper and paint the walls a lighter color. But when I proposed that to my landlord, I was met with a scowl and a hard no.
Forgive me for wanting to increase your property value. Oof.
I pull up the calendar I started for Gray last night and scroll through the entries. He operates so differently from Renn that it took me a while to determine the best way to organize his schedule. I could essentially make a list of the things Renn needed to do or address each day, and I could be reasonably confident that he would check them all off by the following morning. But Gray? I’m not sure what approach will work best for him. The only thing I’m relatively certain about is that it won’t be easy.
“He might be a shadow of the player he used to be, but he’s still great—just not as fit or focused as he once was. There’s so much untapped potential, so much room for greatness, and I think we can get him to come back around with a little guidance.”
Until last night, I was worried about Renn’s judgment. Nothing about Gray told me that he was anything other than an angry, entitled asshole who was ungrateful, undisciplined, and unwilling to be guided anywhere, let alone to greatness. I was convinced the rumors were correct. After all, I’m a proponent of believing someone when they show you who they are.
But what if the sincerity in his voice yesterday, the hint of vulnerability in his eyes, is showing me a piece of his truth, too? What does that mean?
“That means he’s going to make my job ten times harder,” I say, changing the color I chose for his tasks from a bloodred to a slightly more subdued blue.
I glance at the time on my computer and then switch off my walking pad. My legs burn from the intensity of the last hour. I went a little too long and a little too hard, but I needed something to displace the energy that met me when my eyes opened this morning.
My to-do list is still ripe for the picking, but I know what I must do before I can get balls deep into Gray’s life.
I have to decide whether to call Trace.
The idea of hearing his voice makes my stomach tighten so hard that I want to hurl. I’ve sent him a text and an email to the last personal and work email addresses that I had from before we broke up. Unsurprisingly, he hasn’t responded. Now I’m not sure what to do.
Not calling him would be the easiest way to move forward.
Memories from our relationship barrel their way through my mind, elbowing through the barriers I set up to keep them out. My heart races immediately, and sweat dampens my armpits and behind my knees. I tell myself it’s from the last hour of walking, but that’s not true. It’s a trauma response … one I haven’t quite worked through yet.
I can’t let that keep me from advocating for myself.
I pick up my phone and hop off the pad, feeling the baby hairs on the back of my neck cling to my skin. I press each number with determination and grind my teeth, hating how defenseless I am when dealing with Trace. He knew too much about me. He had too much access to my fears and pain—and he used them like a sharpened axe and hacked his way through my heart. Leaving me shattered in every way.