He treats me with ease and familiarity as if we’ve known each other for ages, even though we’ve only just met. Not counting the years I watched them from afar, of course.
It’s soothing and exhilarating.
Stop getting in your head. He’s like that with everyone.
“Sure, why not help yourself to everything? Grey doesn’t seem to have a problem with it,” I mumble, glancing at Grey, who is trying to suppress a grin behind my laptop screen.
It seems he does understand the concept of smiling, after all. I just wasn’t one of the chosen few he blessed with it.
You’re still not, Amelia. You don’t belong with them.
They’re just here because they feel guilty.
I watch Grey typing furiously on my keyboard, and if I hadn’t locked down my AR project before firing up Jamie, I’d be panicking right now.
Wait… this is Grey Donovan.
TheGrey Donovan.
My security measures are probably like stepping over a brick for him, not a wall like intended. Maybe I should be freaking out.
“You’ve got some good music in here, but I’ll add you to follow my playlists for some broader perspective,” Grey mutters, still focused on my laptop.
I exhale, relieved.
If he’s critiquing my music taste, he’s not looking deeper than he should.
“I’m perfectly happy with my current music, thank you very much,” I retort with an edge of sass that surprises even me, but Grey’s comments seem to have awakened something new in me.
Misha coughs, poorly disguising a laugh beside me, and Grey finally lifts his gaze from my laptop to meet mine, a challenge flickering in his eyes. “Don’t be so closed-minded, Amelia. I’m sure I could introduce you to music you never knew you needed.”
Was that?Is he?
Fuck.
Misha, seemingly wanting to change the subject, leans forward. “So, Amelia, what’s your story? When you’re not fighting off deadly allergens, that is.”
I chuckle, the ease of his question helping me relax a little. “Not much to tell, really. I grew up in London, came here for the job. Apparently, living dangerously with my food choices.”
“London? That’s pretty British,” Misha jokes, and I roll my eyes at him.
“You could say that, yes.”
I know Misha is originally from Greece. Everybody knows this, but it would be impolite not to ask about his background in return.
Right?
But before I can reciprocate, Grey strides over and holds a phone right in front of my face so abruptly that all I can do is blink at it until the screen unlocks and I see my yellow wallpaper with a smiling avocado.
“Hey!” I protest, more out of surprise than anger.
The audacity of this man is limitless.
Where did he even get it?
“Shush, I’m just adding our numbers. You’ll need us when Jamie goes rogue again,” he mumbles without looking up from the screen, sitting in the armchair beside the couch.
Again?
