I pushed off the doorframe and grabbed the razor from his hand, stepping into the bathroom. “You know,” I started, “you’d be able to do this on your own if you had a mirror in the house.”
I’d barely gotten the words out before his hands had found my waist, lifting me onto the bathroom counter. I let out a sharp breath, bracing myself.
“Jesus, Grey, ever heard of asking first?”
He ignored me, flicking the light on as he set the shaving cream down. His voice was smoother than it should be. “Just hurry up, Valentina.”
I rolled my eyes, shaking the can of shaving cream before spraying a bit onto my palm. Honestly, the urge to nick him just slightly—enough to wipe that perfectly unbothered expression from his face—was tempting. But Marco’s revenge would probably be swift, quiet, and entirely unfair. I decided it wasn’t worth it.
This time.
I tilted his chin upward again, trying hard not to notice how easily his eyes locked on mine. How did he manage to look so composed while clearly needing my help with something so basic? This was the same man who meticulously assembled furniture, balanced multimillion-dollar contracts, and intimidated entire courtrooms without breaking a sweat—but shaving was too advanced for him?
“You know,” I said lightly, running the razor carefully along his jawline, “most millionaires have people to handle this kind of thing. You couldn’t find one lackey who can shave properly?”
“I don’t trust lackeys,” he said quietly, perfectly still beneath my touch.
“But you trust me?”
Marco opened his eyes. “More than lackeys.”
A slow smirk tugged at my lips, and I ran the razor down his jaw carefully.
“But really, are you secretly vain, Marco? Is that it?”
He shot me a flat look. “No.”
He paused—kind of froze there for a second, looking at his hand. And something about his silence made me pause. Made me pay attention.
“My foster father had a thing about mirrors,” he finally said, still not looking at me. He kept staring down at his hands. “He liked to use them as teaching tools. Lessons, I guess you could call them.”
I frowned. “Teaching tools?”
Marco let out a breath like he was bothered I didn’t understand him. “He thought it was important I saw exactly who I was becoming. Or maybe who he thought I already was.” He shrugged one shoulder as if he were talking about something meaningless. “To put it simply.”
I didn’t say anything for a second. I didn’t know what to say either. Marco wasn’t exactly known for oversharing. He was good at deflecting, dodging, at staying so controlled you could never quite tell what he was thinking. This time I was getting something from him.
“And you never liked what you saw?”
He shook his head, cutting me off gently. “No.”
I had no idea what to do with that other than hold onto it carefully and try not to screw it up.
“Well, you should know, I like what I see when I look at you,” I admitted before I could think better of it.
He looked up, one eyebrow lifting slightly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard me right. “You do?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I said, shrugging as if it weren’t a big deal, even though my heart was doing some Olympic-level gymnastics. “You’re objectively handsome, Marco. It’s borderline annoying how good-looking you are.”
He let out a quiet huff through his nose. “Spare me.”
I ignored him, taking my time as I wiped the razor clean. “Mi gringo,” I added teasingly.
He actually smiled.
It did something to me.
Which was why, without thinking, I tapped his chin lightly and said, “Stop smiling. You’re gonna make me nick you again.”
