Chapter 26 #2
But I kept watching. I noticed other things too.
Like how he never looked into the mirror in the living room.
Not once. Didn’t even face it. And it wasn’t like the mirror was subtle.
It was huge. Framed. Directly across from the couch.
You couldn’t walk past it without catching your own reflection unless you were trying really hard not to.
Which he was.
He’d sit facing the kitchen. Or the window. Or literally anywhere else. And I thought maybe it was accidental at first, just some weird spatial preference.
And then there was this morning, when I’d woken up first.
Which was already weird. Marco was always up before me. He liked being up before me. He treated the early morning like it was some sacred part of the day—quiet and clean and untouched by the chaos I brought to any room.
But it was 9:00 a.m. and he was still asleep.
On my couch, one arm stretched up over his head, the blanket half off his body like he’d kicked it off in a dream. His hair was slightly messy. He looked . . . soft. Not fragile. Not weak. Just quiet. Like he’d finally stopped bracing himself.
I sat down next to him, right by his waist. Not even thinking about it really, I threw on Jersey Shore and kept the volume low.
I wasn’t trying to wake him up. I just .
. . God, I don’t even know what I was doing.
Watching him, I guess. Studying the version of him that didn’t get to exist when he was awake.
Because when Marco was awake, he was on. But asleep? His brow wasn’t tense. His mouth wasn’t pressed into that line that meant he was keeping something to himself. He just looked . . . human.
Which was probably why I stayed.
I didn’t mean to freak him out, but apparently, sitting next to a six-foot lawyer while he was unconscious triggered some kind of survival instinct.
Because when he woke up—abruptly, as if he’d been yanked out of a dream—his hand shot out fast. Like, fast. Right to my hip, like he was reaching for something—or someone—without thinking.
And I froze.
He blinked up at me, breath caught in his throat, palm still on me like he hadn’t registered what he was doing yet.
“Jesus,” he muttered, dropping his hand the second his brain caught up. “What’re you doing?”
“I live here,” I said dryly. “Remember?”
He sat up too quickly, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to wipe the dream off his skin.
He didn’t look at me. He looked at the TV instead, as if Snooki might save him from the fact he’d just grabbed me in a panic, like I was an intruder and not his . . . what? Wife? Roommate? Situation?
“You scared me,” he said.
“You scared me,” I shot back.
He didn’t answer right away, just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
I didn’t say anything else—probably because I was thinking too much again.
Thinking about how fast his reflexes were.
About how tightly he’d grabbed me. How he didn’t look at me afterward.
It reminded me too clearly of the night we’d spent together.
The way his hands had felt then—strong and careful at first, then urgent, needy, like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.
Marco stood up from the couch. He was wearing a pair of shorts—actual shorts, like his knees had ever seen sunlight—and a long-sleeve black shirt.
So apparently, he did own other clothes. I just never saw them because he was always up before nine.
He didn’t say anything at first, just walked to the kitchen with this stiff, subtle wince in his shoulder—the one I kept noticing but hadn’t asked about because he’d shut me down the last time I tried.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. I could tell by the way he rotated it slowly when he thought I wasn’t looking.
Like he was trying to loosen something that refused to move.
He opened the cabinet, grabbed a glass, and filled it with water. Took a long drink as if he were gearing up for war.
Then, without turning around, he said, “Pack a bag.”
I blinked. “For what?”
He finally looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “I’m not staying another night on that couch. When I get off work tonight, I’ll take you to my place, and we’ll stay there.”
I wanted to argue. I really did. I wanted to roll my eyes and say something cutting about his fragile little spine or his precious morning routines.
But instead my eyes drifted to his shoulder—the way it rolled just slightly inward, tight and strained—and I knew it wasn’t dramatics. He wasn’t making a scene. He was tired. Sore. Probably hadn’t slept through a single night since he’d moved in. Plus, he had managed to stay here for nearly a week.
So I didn’t fight him on it. I just said, “Fine.”
And I packed a bag.
Because maybe I was done pushing—for now. Or maybe I just wanted to see what his space felt like now things weren’t fake anymore. Not exactly real either, but not fake. Something murky in between.
I didn’t tell him that.
Marco picked me up later that night and drove us to his apartment. When he threw the car into park a little too aggressively and turned to look at me, he said, “Ground rules.”
I blinked, resisting a groan. “Already?”
“I’m not going to waste time pretending this is anything other than what it is,” he dismissed. “You live in my place, you follow my rules.”
“Cute.”
He watched me unamused.
I sighed. “Fine. Let’s hear them.”
“One,” he started, holding up a single finger, “stay out of my business.”
“That one’s gonna be hard.”
“Two,” he continued, ignoring me, “don’t bring anyone here. Ever.”
I lifted a brow. “Not even a hookup?”
Marco’s eyes darkened. That was my answer, I guess.
I smirked. “Noted.”
He clenched his jaw before moving on. “Three—”
“God, how many are there?”
“Three,” he repeated. “I don’t care what you do outside this apartment, but in here? You act like a respectable human being.”
I scoffed. “Respectable?”
“You know what that means?”
“Sure,” I said, smirking. “It means whatever you want it to mean.” I reached for the door handle. “That it?”
“Four.”
I froze.
“You don’t drink. That is not welcome inside my house. Do you understand me, Valentina?”
And just like that, I wanted to throw open the car door and roll myself into traffic.
I didn’t say anything right away, mostly because I was calculating how dramatic it would be to make a scene in his luxury parking garage. Too much? Probably. But the urge was there. Just for a second.
I finally looked at him. “Wow,” I said, deadpan. “You really are a good time.”
“I’m not here to entertain you.”
“Clearly.”
I leaned my head back against the seat and exhaled slowly through my nose, trying not to say the thing I actually wanted to say, which was, “You don’t get to make rules for me.
” Because the truth was, he did. I’d signed a piece of paper that said he did.
And I knew, somewhere deep down under the layers of sarcasm and stubborn pride, this was probably the one rule that actually mattered to him.
Which, of course, only made me want to break it.
But I didn’t say that either. I just let the silence stretch between us until it got thick and sticky, like heat on your skin in the summer that you couldn’t sweat out.
“Got it,” I said, all honey. “No drinking. No hookups. No curiosity. No fun. Crystal clear, lawyer.”
I yanked open the door and stepped out before he could say another word.
Because if he looked at me again like I was fragile or broken or halfway to disaster, I was going to do something reckless.
Like tell him the real reason I hadn’t been drinking lately.
Or ask if he’d meant it when he’d said he didn’t regret it.
Or, God forbid, kiss him first this time.
He led me all the way up to his apartment from the parking garage. I didn’t know what to expect from Marco’s place, but it wasn’t this.
I knew Marco had money. Obviously. Max didn’t keep men in his circle who were anything less than completely successful, and Marco carried himself like someone who always had enough of it: comfortable, but not flashy. And still—still—I expected something . . . different? Maybe a little personality?
Instead, I walked into the most aggressively boring penthouse I’d ever seen in my life.
And that was when it hit me.
I didn’t actually know Marco.
Not really.
I knew his job. His reputation. The way he carried himself.
The way he never gave away more than he had to.
I knew the way he argued, the condescending little tch he did when he thought I was being ridiculous—which, to be fair, was often.
I knew how heavy his stare was, the way he made people nervous without trying.
The way he never raised his voice even when he was furious.
But the actual man?
Nothing.
It was unsettling. Even at my lowest—at my most selfish, reckless, and impossible—I’d always been someone. I’d always left a mess, a mark—something.
But Marco?
Marco could disappear tomorrow, and no one would ever know he’d lived here.
I didn’t know why that bothered me. It shouldn’t. I didn’t want to know Marco Grey. I didn’t want to make this arrangement any more complicated than it already was. But standing in the middle of his apartment with my bags neatly stacked by the door, I felt like I’d stepped into a stranger’s home.
No. Not a stranger. A ghost.
“Make yourself at home,” he muttered, like even he knew how ridiculous that sounded.
I turned to him, leaning a hip against the counter. “Tell me something, lawyer. Do you actually live here, or is this just your crime scene cover-up?”
His brows rose slightly. “It would be stupid to bring you to a crime scene.”
“Would it? I feel like that would be very on-brand for you.”
He stood by the door unamused.
“Seriously.” I gestured vaguely to the apartment. “Where’s all your stuff?”
He gave me a flat look. “This is my stuff.”