“He's here, but—” Grayson glances over his shoulder. “He's on the phone. Some business call. Could be a while.” He steps back to let me in. “Come wait. I'll let him know you're here when he's done.”
I step inside.
“I've been trying for two hours to talk sense into him, and I'm pretty sure this apartment is draining my will to live.” Grayson shakes his head. “You know what Michelle did to my place when we got together? Throw pillows. So many throw pillows. Blankets on every surface. Art with inspirational quotes that I pretend to hate but actually find very comforting.” He gestures at Scott's empty walls. “This man needs decorative pillow help.”
“Talk sense into him about what?”
Grayson's expression flickers. “Just...stuff. He's been in a bad way since yesterday. Sit down, make yourself comfortable. Or as comfortable as you can on furniture that actively resists human warmth.”
I perch on the edge of the concrete slab masquerading as a couch. Grayson hovers awkwardly.
“Can I get you something? Water? Coffee? A throw pillow to make this place less depressing?”
“I'm fine. Thanks.”
He nods and disappears down the hall, presumably to tell Scott I'm here.
I wait.
And wait.
The condo is so quiet I can hear the waves crashing through the windows. So empty I can hear my own heartbeat. It's like sitting in a very expensive sensory deprivation tank.
After about five minutes, my nerves get the better of me. I need to move. I need to do something other than sit on this hostile couch and rehearse my apology for the fortieth time.
I stand up and wander toward the hallway. Grayson mentioned a bathroom somewhere, and splashing water on my face sounds like an excellent way to calm down before the most important conversation of my life.
The hallway is as personality-free as the living room. White walls. No art. Not even a family photo. Three doors—one open (bathroom), one closed, one slightly ajar with light spilling out.
As I pass the slightly ajar door, I hear Scott's voice.
“—already told you, Rodney. My decision is final.”
I freeze. I should keep walking to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and wait like a normal person who respects privacy.
But then I hear my name.
“I can't publish a book about Jessica without her permission. Not after everything that happened.”
I stop breathing.
“The names are changed—” Rodney's voice sounds tinny through the speakerphone.
“It doesn't matter. Everyone who knows us would know. And she's already—” Scott's voice cracks. “She already thinks I make decisions for her instead of with her. Publishing this book would prove her right.”
I press closer to the door. My heart tightening in my chest.
“Scott, you're not thinking clearly. You're upset about whatever happened yesterday, and you're making a career-ending decision based on emotion.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I'm finally making a decision that puts her first.”
“She's not even speaking to you!”
“Which is exactly why I have to do this. I can't fix what I broke. I can't make her forgive me. But I can stop making decisions about her life without her consent. Starting with this book.”
There's a long pause.
“You really love her,” Rodney says finally.
