I didn’t know why that bothered me. It shouldn’t. I didn’twantto know Marco Grey. I didn’t want to make this arrangement any more complicated than it already was. But standing in the middle of his apartment with my bags neatly stacked by the door, I felt like I’d stepped into a stranger’s home.
No. Not a stranger. A ghost.
“Make yourself at home,” he muttered, like evenheknew how ridiculous that sounded.
I turned to him, leaning a hip against the counter. “Tell me something,lawyer. Do you actuallylivehere, or is this just your crime scene cover-up?”
His brows rose slightly. “It would be stupid to bring you to a crime scene.”
“Would it? I feel like that would be very on-brand for you.”
He stood by the door unamused.
“Seriously.” I gestured vaguely to the apartment. “Where’s all your stuff?”
He gave me a flat look. “Thisismy stuff.”
I scoffed. “No. This is furniture. Where’s thestuff? Where’s theevidenceyou’re a real person? I mean, this is worse than your office. No family photos. No books, no souvenirs, no—hell, you don’t even have mail on the counter. It’s like you don’t actuallyexistoutside of work.”
Marco leaned against the counter across from me, mirroring my stance. “Why does it matter?”
“I want to know how someone as uptight as you doesn’t even own a single framed degree.”
“And I want to know why someone like you is so obsessed with what’s on my walls.”
I smirked. “It’s just concerning, is all. Even serial killers keep souvenirs.”
His expression stayed flat. “You watch too many documentaries.”
He was right—I did—but that was beside the point. Just because I’d binge-watched too many late-night true-crime specials, fueled by cheap wine and questionable decisions, it didn’t make his complete lack of humanity any less weird.
“Seriously, what do you do for fun?”
“I work.”
I rolled my eyes. “Shocker. And when you’re not working?”
“I work.”
I scoffed. “You know, most people would call that unhealthy.”
“Most people don’t get paid to be better than everyone else.”
“There it is, that superiority complex. I was worried you’d left it at the courthouse.”
I didn’t wait for his response. I doubted he’d have one anyway.
“So let me guess,” I continued, unable to stop myself from prodding. “No hobbies? No childhood trophies? Not even one single, lonely ‘world’s best lawyer’ mug?”
“Would you like to get me one?”
I pretended to think it over. “Would you actually keep it in your cabinet?”
Marco’s lips twitched. Just slightly, as if smiling were physically painful. “No.”
Of course not.
I sighed, feeling my patience thinning. There had to be something off here. Normal people—real people—had something personal. A weirdly ugly family heirloom. A tacky souvenir they’d got from Disney World when they were twelve. Even just a blanket tossed carelessly over a couch. Something. Anything. But Marco didn’t even have a speck of dust.
