Vadim
I take a sip of coffee, watching as Preston exits the car and approaches my apartment building.
On the next monitor, he walks through the sliding doors.
My eyes flick to the right. He's in the lobby now, slowed to a dawdle, taking in the polished stone floors, the sculptural light fixtures, the oversized floral arrangement sitting in the middle of it all.
I drain the rest of my coffee and leave the empty mug in the monitor room, a small space adjoining my office.
It's nothing fancy, just a row of monitors for my own cameras capturing my front door, the hallway outside my apartment, the elevator lobby on my floor, and my underground parking space.
Then there are a few more monitors tapped directly into the building's security system, giving me eyes on the main lobby, elevator interiors, staircases, the building perimeter, underground parking, service entrance, and rooftop access door.
I duck into the main bathroom and give myself a quick once-over in the mirror.
My hair's getting to that length where it's verging on needing a cut, and I probably should have shaved this morning.
I'm not looking my best, but that's because I've been consumed with tracking Farkas down and getting ready for Preston to stay with me.
It dawned on me when I woke up this morning that I've never actually shared a living space with anyone since my early twenties when I moved out of home. And that was a fifteen-thousand-square-foot ranch on eighty acres where I had my own wing with a private entrance, a kitchen, and my own gym.
This is the first time someone's coming to stay here, with me, in my innermost sanctuary. It's not that I'm getting cold feet or regretting offering for him to stay. Preston belongs with me. It's the only way I can guarantee his immediate safety while I put some longer-term measures in place.
It's the fact that he's the first.
The only.
I make my way toward the door, running my eyes over the place one last time. I don't have a lot of stuff. I'm a minimalist by lifestyle as much as by choice. I eat, sleep, and work here. I spend more time in the gym than I do in the living room.
And it shows.
An oversized L-shaped charcoal leather sectional, a slab of marble for a coffee table, and a hundred-and-ten-inch television mounted flush to the wall, bought for one reason and one reason only.
To watch soccer.
The doorbell rings just as I reach the entryway. I remind myself that the face I'm about to be greeted with isn't the same boyishly handsome face I saw at The Butterfly Lounge. It's been marred by an asshole I am going to bring excruciating pain to.
I open the door, paying close attention to keeping my expression as neutral as I can. "Hey, Preston."
"Hi." He manages a small smile, and I notice he looks a bit better than he did yesterday. The swelling has gone down, the bruising has faded a little, and his lip seems to be healing. "Nice building."
"Thanks. Come in."
I move out of the way and reach for the strap of the duffel bag hanging off his shoulder. He looks at me for a moment, curious, uncertain, then slowly takes it off and hands it over. When I take it from him, our fingers brush, and a warm current shoots up my arm.
Preston steps into the entryway and moves slowly toward the living room. As he takes the place in, I check him out. For any additional signs of injury, that is.
He's wearing a faded mustard tee with a retro Yellowstone print, an old illustration of a bison beneath the lettering, tucked into slightly baggy Levis, an oversized washed-out blue-and-gray flannel thrown over the top, and beat-up New Balance shoes.
A pair of dark shades sit atop his mop of unruly sandy hair.
He looks great. I mean he seems fine. Uninjured.
He walks through the living room, taking in the not-much-to-take-in, and ends up by the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Wow. This view," he muses, squinting slightly in the bright light of the clear day.
I leave his duffel bag on the sofa and stand beside him. The sun is beaming directly down on him, and my jaw clenches at the close-up view I've got of his bruised face.
He got hurt because of me.
I've never known a guilt as strong as the one that I feel right now. I'll deal with Farkas later, but right now, my one and only priority is to look after Preston.
After showing him the kitchen, the main bathroom, my office, and taking him to his room, we wind up back in the living room.
"Thank you for letting me stay with you," he says, looking up at me with those warm, hazel eyes.
His hand gently grazes my forearm. I open my mouth but can't form any words. Why is he thanking me? It's my fault he's endured what he has. This is the least I could do. More guilt pummels me, his innocence only making it worse.
"Of course." Needing a distraction from the unpleasantness scratching away inside of me, I move on to logistics. "Right. So, I don't know what you eat. Do you have any dietary requirements?"
"Nope."
"Cool. I'm not much of a cook, so I usually make myself a simple breakfast at home and then eat out for the rest of the day. Does takeout sound good?"
"It does, but, uh…"
"Yeah?"
"It's just that I love to cook but normally don't have the time. Since I'm off work for a week, would it be okay if I make lunch and dinner for us?"
There's no point in him going to any trouble for me since it would be a complete waste, but he's got a hopeful look in his eye, like he really wants to do this.
"Sure. That sounds good."
He rocks back on his heels, like he's pleased. "Great. I'll place an order on Instacart. Do you have any dietary requirements?"
"No. None." I shake my hand out by my side to help me get back on track. "I'll be working from home for the next few days—"
"You will?"
"Yes."
"You don't have to do that. I'm fine on my own. And I won't go through any of your stuff, if that's what you're worried about."
"It's not that." My voice softens. "I said I'd look after you, and that's what I'm going to do."
Something warm flickers in his eyes. "Thank you."
Another fistful of guilt punches me in the chest. I really wish he'd stop thanking me.
"If there's anything else, we can deal with it when it comes up. The number one thing is you need to rest. Your bed is made up, but I wasn't sure if you wanted to spend all your time in the guest room, so you have options for where you can base yourself."
"Um, okay?"
"There's a media room if you want to watch TV or movies. A library. It's small but cozy. Or there's the terrace. The weather's forecast to be good for the next few days, and I've got a few lounges out there, so you can relax and work on your tan."
He glances around the living room then swings those kind hazel eyes back to me. "And where will you be?"
"Mainly in my office, I guess."
He glances past me in the direction of my office. "I-I'm perfectly fine here." He swings his arm toward the couch, wincing a little as if that caused him some pain. "That looks super comfy. I love the light in this room, and your office is close by, right?"
A faint pulse moves through my chest. I might be reading incorrectly between the lines, but does he…does he want to be near me?
"You know what? I'm mainly going to be responding to emails and reading over reports anyway. I can bring my laptop and join you in here, if you like?"
He breaks out into a smile then winces, lifting his fingers to his split lip. "Are you sure?"
"Positive. Go get settled on the couch. I'll bring you some blankets and pillows and anything else you need."