Chapter 21

Feelings crackle through the air around us like static in a lightning storm. Relief, anger, trepidation, joy, lust, and confusion. I don’t know if I should be glad he’s not a head honcho of the company, or angry that he’s still a part of it. I mean, if he’s the custodian, it’s not like he’s making any decisions about polluting or deciding which group of seals to club first. Which… means we can be together? Although, there was a lot of lying, so maybe not. Especially since I’m not even sure why he lied in the first place.

On top of all those thoughts, he’s still in just a towel, looking ridiculously good. It definitely doesn’t help me sort out my thoughts when I keep thinking about writing a dissertation to honour his abs.

While these thoughts bombard me, Grant hangs his head, looking anywhere but at me. He absently scratches at some blotchy patches that have already faded to a muted pink.

“So does this change things?” he asks in a whisper that cracks with emotion.

I take a cleansing breath. If I’m honest, it does. Moments ago, he was enemy number one, a complete no-go. Now? He’s a question mark. Another mystery for me to dig and prod at before deciding which side of the fence I’m on. He’s at least on the table.

On the table. An apt comparison considering how scrumptious he looks, still glistening from his shower.

“Yeah. It does change things,” I admit, slightly embarrassed about how quickly I added an asterisk onto my firm no to dating anyone at the company.

He shrugs. “I don’t blame you.”

“Blame?”

“I mean, I’m basically just a kid from a shitty desert planet and you’re a queen. It was always just bad storytelling to have us end up together.”

I pause.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh right,” he says, shifting uncomfortably, which sinks his towel a little lower on his hips. “I guess I can tell you what the prequels are about, but don’t take it as an endorsement to watch them. The first one especially doesn’t really line up with the rest of the movies. Like, why is pod racing such an important part of a villain’s origin story?”

“No,” I say, holding up a hand to stop him. “I don’t care about whatever reference you’re making—no offense. I meant, you’re not evil. Probably.”

For the first time since I saw his I.D. badge, Grant looks up at me.

“Was that up for debate?”

I raise an eyebrow. It’s my best ‘oh-you-stupid-fuck’ expression. It’s the one I had on when I worked as a defense attorney and tried to defend a guy against theft charges… and he wore a stolen watch to his deposition.

“Why do you think I ran from you? Why I risked getting crushed by the building?”

He runs a hand through his wet, curly hair. I smile. The gesture makes sense when it actually works to get some of the unruly hair out of his eyes. It showcases how high his eyebrows have risen in surprise.

“Is this because of the penthouse? I rented it out online. Technically, it was after we broke in and put the window to good use, but still. Are we really throwing the word evil around for that?”

I stare at him. Thinking about what we did up against the window is not helping my resolve to slow things down to evaluate if he’s the enemy or not before ripping his clothes and/or towel off.

Except, I really do need to evaluate. Malice is often the evil twin of stupidity. The two look an awful lot alike, moving and pausing in all the same ways. It’s often impossible to discern which one is genuine and which one is the mimicry of good intentions.

“You work for Zagreus Hart,” I say simply, deciding that subterfuge has no place in an endless cycle.

There’s a pause. Grant looks at me like he’s waiting for me to go on.

“And you’re a lawyer?” he adds tentatively.

I pause. My god, when we’re not going at each other like animals in heat, we can be quite awkward.

“What?” I ask.

Grant shrugs. “I’m not really following this. Is it too late to talk about pod racing?”

“Hart Link Incorporated is evil… allegedly.”

Grant laughs and then looks at me. Despite the discerning charm of his carefree laugh, I remain resolute in my seriousness. Getting disarmed by joy and laughter are rooky mistakes.

“Oh… um… no?” he mumbles. “I don’t think so?”

I roll my eyes, getting serious flashbacks to when I had to tell my client that the price sticker was still on his watch.

“The headquarters are in a giant skull shape in a cliff.”

Grant frowns slightly, his brow furrowing. “I always thought it looked like a smiley face. Kind of like an emoji Mount Rushmore. I named it Dennis, although I guess that’s not super important right now.” He trails off and rocks back on his heels, blushing slightly.

Dennis.Grant is either the world’s best actor or the most awkward man in existence.

Maybe both.

“Your boss is a billionaire with near-monopolies in every single sector of importance in technology and no one even knows what he looks like.”

Grant makes a considering noise to go along with his single bob of his head.

“We get our birthdays off, though. Plus, we can wear jeans,” he says, gesturing like he’s made a great point.

“The company’s motto is ‘A Better World at Any Cost’.”

Grant shrugs. “I think it’s optimistic. Who doesn’t want a better world?”

Behind his curtain of dripping, wavy hair, Grant’s brown eyes meet mine. They’re clear pools of honesty and raw emotion into his sweet, hopeful soul. When he looks at a menacing skull, he sees a smiley face. When he reads a threatening slogan, he thinks it’s a jubilant look towards the future.

When he sees me, he sees someone loveable.

“You’re really not evil.”

“I have a lot of faults.” He gives me a weak smile. “But being evil isn’t one of them. I hope. My mom would be so disappointed if I turned out evil.”

Just like that, all the gusto goes out of me. As it always does, the adrenaline that bolsters my body after the fall of the building falters and fails. I brush past him to collapse onto his tiny, well-used loveseat.

This is all too much. I was prepared for him to be evil. I have no clue what to do with him now that I know he’s good.

Maybe not good. He still lied. A lot.

Grant kneels down in front of me on the couch. His hands flutter up to reach for my own, but pull back. He balls his hands into fists and drops them to his side.

“What do you need?” he asks in a voice that feels like a kiss.

I know he’s being sincere—kind, caring, dedicated, the very embodiment of sweet. But, with him in a towel, still damp and glistening, plus kneeling in front of me, I’m getting very unsweet thoughts about him. Very unproductive thoughts.

“First, I need you to put some clothes on,” I admit. Grant nods, like he’s just been granted a holy task. “Then, I need the truth. I need to know who you are, who you really are.”

There’s a slight flinch on Grant’s part, so subtle that I almost question if I saw it. At least, I would question it if I weren’t so absolute in my self-belief.

“The real me isn’t that suave superhero,” he says finally. “It’s some blotchy janitor who still lives in his mom’s basement.”

He doesn’t say all the other things—that he’s the guy who races into a crumbling building for me, who has the cutest/dorkiest sense of humour, who makes me feel like my ice heart is melting when he looks at me with those eyes of his.

I should probably say those things, especially considering how distraught he looks. I don’t. Even though I’m demanding honesty from him, I’m not willing to let myself be vulnerable in the same way with him.

Not yet. Especially not when it’s so much more dangerous for my heart if I’m allowed to fall in love with him.

“Yeah, that’s the guy I need to talk to.”