Ihave never needed a shower more. Dust from the concrete and container grease coats my leather pants along with random dots of powdered sugar from my Christmas tree pancakes. My hair is grimy, my mascara clumpy, and my cheeks sore from the verbal sparring match Grayson and I seem to be in this morning.
More than that—someone is targeting crime family members, and all I can think about it how I’m going to protect mine. I couldn’t get my shipment of weapons in without them being hijacked. I can only hold my dad off for so long before he notices things aren’t as he left them.
Grayson finally pulls up to the front entrance of my building and lets out a low whistle. “The St. Regis Residences. Never realized how close to the harbor it was. Don’t think I know anyone who lives here, so … there’s that.” He inhales another drag of his cigarette, a habit that on anyone else would be disgusting, cause for me to break the fingers that hold said cancer stick. But on him … it’s sexy. In a John Travolta fromGreasesort of way.
I shake my head. I’m clearly exhausted. In a sugar-induced delirium between the pancakes, donuts, and coffee in the lasteight hours. I can’t be held accountable for whatever comes out of my mouth. “Do you want to come up?”
Grayson’s gaze cuts to mine.
“To see the place. Inside. I wasn’t?—”
“Yeah. Don’t think I’ve ever been in here.”
I press my lips together and nod, fumbling with my phone. I get out of the car and move toward the front. The butler opens the front door.
Grayson jogs to hurry, coming up behind me, and the heat of him is hypnotic. I blink. “Hey, Jerry. This is Detective Holtz. He’s leaving his car here. Tow it and I’ll kill you.” I wink at him.
Jerry dips his chin in his stoic, singular nod, and I smile, heading for the elevator. Grayson bumps me as we get on, and I mash the button for my condo.
“Jerry? Isn’t that the name of your bike?” he asks, one brow arched as his gaze flicks back toward the door and the butler on the other side of it.
I grin slowly. I know where this is going. “Yep.”
His mouth goes tight, almost a scowl. “You named your bike after your butler?”
“Sure did. He always shows up, there when I need him, never talks back, and is reliable.”
He mutters something under his breath, a flash of annoyance slipping past his composed squint at the penthouse light. I bite back a laugh at his irritated demeanor and at the thought I named my hunk of metal after another man, even though it’s just Jerry. It gets under his skin, and I grin wider.
We ride the rest of the way in silence, the odd tension making the air thick and the box we’re in stifling. Grayson’s eyes flick toward me. I can’t decide if it’s the look that saysI want to rip all your clothes off, or the look ofI can’t stand you and you should be in jail. It’s the same strain from the house this morning.
Since my dad passed this responsibility on to me, I haven’t thought about dating or men. There hasn’t been time, and frankly, men are intimidated by my position or who I am. I don’t have time to coddle them or make them feel secure in a relationship when I have an entire organization to worry about. Any man who wants me needs to want my whole family, too.Allof them.
The elevator dings, and I push past Grayson to step off. Two of my guards stand on either side of my door, and the one on the left reaches into his pocket to key in for me.
“Guards on your floor, but none in the lobby?” Grayson trails behind me as I walk through my front door, but my other guard halts him. He stands tall, several feet higher than Grayson. The man is bulky and intimidating. Grayson blinks at him.
“I need your weapon,” he says.
Grayson sighs, reaching for his holster and handing over his Glock while his gray eyes stay fixed on mine. “How am I supposed to defend myself against you?”
“You’re not defenseless, Detective.”
“I beg to differ,” he says, pulling his jacket taut back around the edge of his holster. He licks the corner of his lips, and I grip the doorframe harder as warmth sweeps low in my belly.
When Grayson steps inside, I shut the door, using it to lean against as I watch him scope out my place. His dark hair and coat are striking in the pale natural afternoon light. He strides to the wall of windows framing the Boston Harbor, checking out the balcony before he turns to me and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “It’s pretty epic up here.”
I nibble my lip. “I’m never home. Sleep, shower … you know.”
He raises his eyebrows as I walk into the kitchen. I drag my fingers over the creamy marble, outlining the blush and gold veining.
“Actually, I don’t,” he says, approaching me.
I brush my hair off my shoulder. Is it hot in here? “Do you want some water? I want some water.” Without letting him respond, I open the pearl-colored cabinets, searching for my glasses.
He chuckles. “You mustnotbe home all that often.”
I smirk at him, finally opening the cabinet that has a few cups, and fill each one with ice and water. I hand him his, and he practically guzzles it down. We both do.
