Max’s hand caught my wrist. Not tight, not rough, just enough to stop me.
I looked up at him.
Finally, he exhaled. “Just don’t distract him.”
I pulled my wrist free and stepped away from him, pushing open the office door without knocking and stepping inside with the same confidence I always had when walking into Marco’s space.
I didn’t say anything at first, only let my eyes drift to the desk.
The last time I was in here, I didn’t exactly have decorum.
It was impossible to be in this office without remembering exactly how I’d spent my last visit. And apparently, it was impossible to see Marco behind that stupid desk without remembering exactly what he’d done to me on top of it.
Honestly, who needed shame when you had memories like mine?
Marco set his pen down, leaning back slowly in his chair. “Do you knock?”
“Do I need to?”
“Yes.”
“Oops.”
His jaw ticked slightly. “Do you need something, Valentina?”
I reached for the package I’d set on his desk, dragging it toward me. “Some man showed up at the apartment today.”
“Who?”
“Tommy.He gave me this,” I said, nudging the box toward him. “For you.”
He didn’t reach for it. He barely even glanced at it. But I saw the tiny shift in him—so small I might’ve missed it if I’d blinked too long.
The tension around his jaw, the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the way he looked down for half a second too long before meeting my eye again. Something was off. Something about Tommy—his name, the box, whatever it was—bothered him.
Marco liked to pretend he was unreadable, but I noticed things. Too many things, honestly. Like how his fingers twitched slightly on the edge of his desk. It made me wonder exactly what Tommy meant to him. What this box meant. Why it mattered.
Or maybe it didn’t matter at all and I was just reading into everything again. But still, I doubted it. Marco was good at hiding things, but I was better at noticing.
“What’s it for?” I asked, wondering if he’d tell me the truth.
He shrugged. “Probably for some favor.”
I frowned. Seriously? How could someone so smart be so dense? “Not for your birthday?”
Finally, he exhaled and reached out to accept the package.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I pressed.
His fingers flexed slightly against the box. “I don’t celebrate birthdays.”
I scoffed, leaning against his desk. “Well, that’s boring.”
“Yeah. Birthdays are boring.”
Right, and Marco Grey was clearly the expert on what was boring, considering his life revolved around paperwork and subtle death glares. But honestly, it wasn’t even about the birthday—it was about the way he treated every tiny detail like a secret. Did this man have a spreadsheet of things he refused to share, or was paranoia just a fun hobby of his?
“You know, normal people actually share things with their spouse,” I said pointedly. “Crazy concept, I know.”
