I open my mouth, then close it again.
Grey knows.
There’s no way on Earth hedoesn’tknow Chandler hates bees. And that’s not almost thirty years of studying human interactions telling me Grey knows Chandler hates bees.
That sarcastic, bitingDoes he?clearly says that this is not new information.
“We were maybe twelve or thirteen when he found a tree in a local park that was swimming with bees. He decided he wanted honey, so he started banging on it, and the next thing we knew, he wascoveredwith them. Stung probably a dozen times. No anaphylactic reaction or anything. Not allergic. Just stung a lot. One of the stings got infected and he had to go on antibiotics that hedidhave an adverse reaction to.”
Grey grunts.
If I were the type of person to read into a grunt, I’d think that grunt saidso he’s always been an asshole.
Grey loves bees.
It’s not just his magic beeswax-biodegradable-plastic self-sealing cereal bags. The triplets told me last night that Grey used his first profits off of his patent to start building his own research lab with a tight friend from college. He has a solid reputation as a certified bee genius in certain circles. Works with universities and government organizations sometimes. And suddenly in early December, with no warning, he sold all of his research to a completely unknown company and signed off on an agreement to not do bee research for anyone but them for the next ten years.
Decker found a small corner of the internet where the bee-obsessed hang out, and he said there’s speculation that it was a sabotage job.
That Grey and his former business/research partner haven’t spoken other than through their lawyers ever since.
I tend to believe you only get a third of the story off the internet. And I know I’m missing pieces of the story.
But the man I met in Hawaii? The man who wanted to do good in the world despite indicating that he, too, was having a bad day? The man who made me feel like I was worthy of basic human affection on what was one of the worst nights of my life?
The man who was a friend when I needed one the most?
I want to believe he’s still inside this zipped-up man who only makes noncommittal grunts when I say Chandler’s name.
“Why were you in Hawaii?” I ask him.
Those blue eyes shift until he’s looking at me straight on. “To crash a wedding and destroy a man’s reputation.”
I swallow.
Hard.
“What did he do to you?” I whisper.
His eyes flick away.
“I’ll believe you, whatever you say. And I know it was bad. I know ithadto have been bad.” I point to the picture ofThe Hive. “This is—this is next-level perfection. He’s a selfish ass. Hedeservesthis. But there are so many people who will be collateral damage if you do this here.”
He still doesn’t look at me, and that’s when I notice the bags under his eyes and the droop in his shoulders. The dishes at the sink that suggest someone ate here already this morning. The slight scent of bacon lingering in the air.
He hasn’t slept.
That’s why I haven’t seen him.
If he’s needed to be here, he’s come at night.
When I’m not here.
“Please—” I start.
“I hear Mr. Twizzlers and hisbody shopbusiness could move to a different spot in town if Ms. Red Robin spilled all the dirt she has on him.”
I gasp.
