Chapter 4

FOUR

The next day that hat comment comes back to bite me in the ass.

Sutton’s waiting outside, in front of the building. He’s leaning against the wall next to the door, casually eating churros from a white cardboard box. Somehow, some way, he manages to look elegant while doing it. He shouldn’t, but he does.

Some people seem to be born with an innate grace that allows them to come off sophisticated no matter what they do. Sutton got a big helping, obviously.

I stop in front of him, and he extends the box toward me.

“You didn’t break in this time.” I take the churro he’s offering without even really thinking about it.

“I’m not allowed to eat inside after the infamous Spaghetti Bolognese Incident of two thousand and twenty-two.” He picks up the last churro and stuffs it in his mouth.

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.”

I cock my head to the side and study him. “So, just to clarify, it’s okay to break in, but eating is where you draw the line?”

“A person has to have a moral code, Wren,” he says solemnly.

“Sure. Silly me.”

I leave it be and unlock the door, and we head inside.

“How’s the finger?” he asks me as I’m putting my stuff away at the front desk.

I look down at the splint and shrug. “It’s whatever. The swelling’s going down, so there’s that.”

He licks icing sugar off his fingers and eyes me curiously. “You’re weirdly aloof about the whole thing.”

That gives me pause for a moment before I send him a quick look.

“I’ve had worse injuries.”

Understatement, that one, but I’ve never gotten into the habit of discussing intensely personal things with strangers.

“Are you going to elaborate?”

“You said you weren’t interested in things like that. Remember? You don’t give a shit about my job, hobbies, interests, friends, or family, unless it’s daddy issues, which, if it wasn’t clear yet, this isn’t.”

“That is the status quo. Then again, if this was how I normally do things, I would’ve already slept with you by now, so nothing about this situation really seems to follow the usual plan.”

“Is this you adapting?” I ask.

“Definitely taking a huge step out of my comfort zone. I’m not sure about adapting, though.”

“I’m so proud of you,” I say drily. “It’s like witnessing the moon landing.”

“I’d hold off on the praise. I’m new to this whole small-talk-with-somebody-I-want-to-sleep-with thing, so you might have to hold my hand through this. How exactly is this supposed to go?”

“Shouldn’t you be the one who’s better equipped for small talk out of the two of us?”

“And you came to that conclusion based on what?”

I measure him with a long look. “Aren’t you rich people all used to chatting aimlessly to each other at charity balls and fashion shows and, I don’t know, horse races?”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “The fuck would I do at a horse race?”

“Drink expensive champagne, wear a dapper suit and a straw hat, and speak with a posh British accent while people take your picture?” I take a guess.

“Well, I sure as hell know what I won’t be doing with my Sunday. Sounds boring as fuck.”

“You’re ruining all my fantasies of what being rich is like,” I inform him as I hand him the mop.

He leans his shoulder against the wall and waggles his brows at me.

“You’ve been fantasizing about me?”

“Not you ,” I say pointedly and with audible exasperation.

“Now, now, there’s no shame in it.” The grin on his face takes on a devilish edge as he pushes himself off the wall and follows me to the changing rooms. “It’s healthy. Hell, I fantasized about you just this morning. And twice last night. Plus, there was that half hour when I was taking a shower. That was a great thirty minutes. Very educational for the mind.”

He says all of that so damn casually, while my whole face feels like it’s on fire by the time he’s done.

The stupidest part? It’s exciting.

I don’t know if it makes me shallow or what, but nobody ever talks to me like this. Nobody’s ever said things like that to me. And yeah, what-the-fuck-ever, it’s exciting. I’ll just admit it to myself.

Sutton is arrogant and smug and frivolous and not even a little subtle, and I don’t really take anything he says seriously, but yes, it’s exciting.

“You’re still blushing,” he says. Smugly. As he’s prone to do.

“I guess I’m out of practice since literally nobody I meet just casually drops it into the conversation that they’re jerking off while thinking of me.”

“Their loss,” he says with a careless shrug.

“What part of this, exactly, do you count as a loss?”

“The blush. I’ll be fantasizing about that the minute I get home, just FYI.”

I am absolutely not equipped for this conversation, so I don’t even try. I just get to work. Sutton follows my example, and if I thought yesterday was some sort of exception and that he’d be less hardworking today when the novelty of this situation has worn off, I’m dead wrong, because he works just as hard as yesterday, methodically cleaning everything. The way he throws himself into the task at hand is such a weird contrast to everything he’s said about himself so far that I don’t even know how to address it. So I leave it be.

“How long have you worked here?” he asks while I’m mopping the floor of the changing room.

“About a year and a half. I’ve got classes during the day, so this works out great for me.”

“You’re a student?”

I nod.

There’s a long pause, during which we switch to the next changing room.

“What are you studying?”

I throw him a look.

“Unless it’s a secret?” he asks when I fail to answer.

I shake my head. “No. Just waiting to see if there’ll be another innuendo.”

“I’m trying to behave.”

“You know how?”

“Emphasis on trying.”

I snort out a laugh and go back to mopping.

“Electrical engineering,” I say after a little bit.

He lets out a low whistle and grins when I glance in his direction.

“That was me being impressed,” he says.

“Yeah, okay,” I mutter while my cheeks go uncomfortably warm again for fuck knows what reason.

“Genuinely impressed, not just saying-it-because-I-want-to-sleep-with-you impressed.”

“How nice of you.”

“Tell me about it. I didn’t think I was even capable of the former.”

“Holy shit.” I let out a loud, theatrical gasp. “You know what this might be?”

He sends me an amused look. “What?”

I look around, like I’m trying to make sure nobody overhears me before I whisper loudly, “A hidden depth.”

He stares at me for a moment before he snorts out a laugh.

“A hidden depth in my emotional puddle,” he muses. “Who would’ve thought?”

“Maybe depth is an exaggeration. A hidden pothole.”

He’s laughing again.

It’s kind of nice.

After his laughter has died down, he looks at me, but this time it’s not the usual teasing arrogance I see in his gaze. This time the look is much more serious. Sort of inquisitive. It almost feels like he’s looking at me for the first time.

I’m not sure what to make of it. I wanted to be seen, and here he is. Seeing me. Only not really. I’m still technically hiding. He’s just accidentally stumbled upon me.

It doesn’t matter anyway.

A few more evenings, and he’ll be gone from my life for good.