14. Grayson
14
GRAYSON
I don’t sleep. I tell myself it’s because this couch is a goddamn nightmare, too small, too stiff, and positioned at an awkward angle where the streetlight outside spills directly onto my face. But that’s a lie. The real reason, Margot’s in the next room. I stare at the ceiling, arms crossed behind my head, listening to the faint sounds of the city outside. It should be like any other night. I’ve crashed in worse places, dealt with bigger problems. But none of those problems have ever beenher. There’s something about knowing she’s just behind that closed door, probably curled up in bed, probably not sleeping either. Something about the way she sounded when she called me tonight, her voice missing its usual sharp edges. She was scared. And Margot Evans doesn’tdoscared.
I rub a hand over my jaw, exhaling slowly. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t care. But the thought of her dealing with this alone? Yeah, that sits in my chest like a weight I can’t shake.
A noise breaks through the quiet, a shuffle, the creak of a floorboard. I’m on my feet in an instant, pulse kicking up. My eyes dart to the door just as it opens, revealing Margot’s small frame in the dim light of the living room. She’s wrapped in an oversized sweater, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, leaving her long legs bare. Her hair is loose, slightly tousled like she’s been tossing and turning, and when she shifts, the sweater slips off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin.
Margot has always been beautiful, in that infuriating, effortless way. But like this, half-asleep, vulnerable, with the soft glow of the city lights casting shadows over her bare legs, she looks different. Less composed. Less like the woman I battle with every day and more like someone I…shouldn’t be thinking about her like this.
She freezes when she sees me standing there, like she wasn’t expecting me to still be awake.
"What are you doing?"
"You tell me," I counter, crossing my arms. "Couldn’t sleep?"
She hesitates, fingers tightening around the fabric of her sweater. "No."
I exhale, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah. Me neither."
Her gaze flicks to the couch. "Uncomfortable?"
"Like sleeping on a pile of bricks."
A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of her lips, but it doesn’t last. Instead, she shifts, rubbing her hands over her arms. That’s when I notice, she’s cold.
Without thinking, I grab the blanket I never used and toss it toward her. "Here."
She catches it, surprised. "You didn’t use it?"
I shrug. "Didn’t need it."
For a second, she just stands there, blanket clutched in her hands, staring at me like she’s trying to figure something out. Then, in a move that shocks the hell out of me, she takes a step closer.
"Grayson."
The way she says my name, it’s not sharp, not challenging. It’s quieter. Almost unsure, and damn it, that does something to me.
I clear my throat. "Yeah?"
Her fingers tighten around the blanket, like she’s debating something. Then she shakes her head, exhaling. "Nothing."
But it’s notnothing. I can feel it between us, something shifting, something unspoken stretching too thin. And for the first time, I wonder if maybe…just maybe, I’m not the only one feeling it. She turns back toward her room, pausing in the doorway. "Goodnight, King."
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. "Goodnight, Evans."
She disappears behind the door, and I drop back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling once again. I scrub a hand down my face, forcing a slow exhale. This isn’t me. I don’t lose sleep over women. I don’t let them take up space in my head. And yet, here I am, every nerve in my body still on high alert because ofher. The scent of her lingers in the air, something soft, warm, with a hint of vanilla. It messes with me, makes my already restless mind wander. I shift on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position, but all I can think about is the way she looked at me before she left. Like she wanted to say something. Like she almost trusted me. And that thought is more dangerous than anything else happening tonight. Yeah. I’m definitely not getting any sleep.
My mind drifts back to the first time I met her. Back when everything between us was sharp edges and competition, when she was just the infuriatingly brilliant woman my grandfather couldn’t stop praising. I remember walking into that boardroom, expecting another forgettable opponent, only to be blindsided byher, all fire and quick wit, challenging me like no one ever had before. Back then, I was convinced she was just another obstacle. Just another person I had to outmaneuver. But now, lying here, replaying the way she looked at me tonight, the way her voice lost its usual bite when she said my name…Could it be true? Could she be more than my rival? More than the woman I’ve spent years trying to one-up? The thought is ridiculous. Impossible. And yet, as I stare at the ceiling, the scent of her still lingering in the air, I can’t shake the feeling that something between us has shifted.
That might be the most dangerous thought of all. And the worst part, I don’t think I want to, because in a way, she’s just like me. We both keep people at a distance, both build walls so high that no one can climb them. I use charm, she uses sharp edges. I avoid commitment, she avoids vulnerability. But at the core, it’s the same thing. The same fear of letting someone in, of losing control. And maybe, just maybe, that’s why I can’t stop thinking about her.
Then, just as I start to drift into something resembling rest, a noise cuts through the silence.
A sharpthudoutside the apartment. Instantly, I’m on high alert, every muscle tensing as I sit up, listening. Another sound follows, a rustling, like someone moving just beyond the door. My pulse kicks up, instincts flaring.
And then, Margot’s door creaks open. She’s standing there, wide-eyed, her face pale in the dim light. "Grayson… did you hear that?"