"I accept the position, Miss Jennings," Grant says. "When do I start?"
"Apparently, at two o'clock this afternoon," I reply, completely overwhelmed by the sheer, ridiculous speed at which Malcolm operates. "But you are taking the rest of the week off to let your shoulder heal. That is an order."
Grant’s smile widens a fraction of an inch. "Understood, boss."
"Bring the car around, Grant," Malcolm says. "We are going back to the penthouse."
Grant nods once, turning awkwardly to pull the heavy steel door open with his good arm. He steps out into the stairwell, the door clicking shut behind him.
I turn to Malcolm.
"You just hired your former head of security to work for an architecture firm that doesn't exist yet," I point out.
"The firm exists," Malcolm corrects, stepping into my space. He reaches out, his hands resting on my hips. "It just lacks the paperwork. And Grant is exceptionally overqualified, which means you will never have to worry about a contractor breaking a confidentiality agreement."
"You are insane." I wrap my arms around his neck, laughing despite the heavy exhaustion in my bones.
"I am efficient." He leans down, kissing the side of my neck. "Go pack your bag, Audrey. We have a meeting with your lawyer."
**
The ride back to the Gold Coast is completely different from the ride to the safe house.
The privacy partition is down. Grant is driving with one hand, his injured arm resting carefully against his chest. The radio is playing softly in the background. The tension that usually fills the armored SUV is entirely gone.
I look out the window as we pull up to the massive glass-and-steel high-rise.
There are no paparazzi on the sidewalk. The building management clearly took Grant’s threat seriously. Two large security guards are standing near the revolving doors, keeping the entrance clear.
We take the private elevator up to the top floor.
When the doors slide open, the penthouse looks exactly the same as it did when we left. The minimalist furniture, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sterile, perfect silence.
I drop my duffel bag on the floor of the foyer.
I look around the massive living room. It was built to be a fortress. It was built by a man who didn't want anyone to know he existed outside of his corporate identity.
"I hate this sofa," I say.
Malcolm stops halfway to the kitchen. He turns around, looking at the charcoal gray sectional sitting in the center of the room.
"You hate the sofa," he repeats slowly.
"It’s terrible. It looks like it belongs in a waiting room for a very expensive dentist." I walk further into the room, pointing at the black steel coffee table. "And that table is a structural hazard. If you bump your shin on it, you’ll need a tetanus shot."
Malcolm crosses his arms, watching me. He doesn't look offended. He looks fascinated.
"It is a custom piece," he points out mildly.
"It’s a weapon disguised as furniture." I turn in a slow circle, taking in the gray walls, the lack of rugs, the absolute absence of color. "This entire apartment looks like a high-end morgue. I told you that the first day I moved in."
"You did."
"If I am going to live here," I say, stopping to look directly at him, "if we are going to live here... it needs to change."
Malcolm’s expression softens. The cold, calculating CEO vanishes, leaving behind the man who asked me to marry him in a freezing warehouse.
He uncrosses his arms and walks toward me. He stops right in front of me, his hands sliding into the pockets of his sweatpants.
