Page 15

I shake off the memory and march up the steps.

Before I can knock, the front door swings open.

And there he is.

Grayson Blackwood.

Six feet four inches of bad decisions, black tattoos, and a face that should probably come with a warning label.

He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a fitted black T-shirt that stretches across his chest. His dark hair is damp, like he’s just gotten out of the shower, and there’s a shadow of stubble along his jaw.

He looks exhausted.

Dark circles beneath his eyes. A tightness around his mouth.

And somehow, unfairly, he’s still the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.

His gaze travels down my body before returning to my face.

“Morning, Pumpkin.”

“Don’t Pumpkin me.”

“Come to yell at me again?”

“Depends. Are you going to say something stupid?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Good. I’d hate to interrupt your winning streak.”

I push past him into the foyer.

He shuts the door behind me.

“Make yourself at home.”

“Don’t tempt me. I might start redecorating.”

“Touch my furniture and we’re gonna have a problem.”

I glance around.

“Trust me, your furniture isn’t in any danger.”

The foyer is enormous, with a sweeping staircase, dark wood paneling, and a chandelier that looks like it belonged to a nineteenth-century vampire.

Half the walls are covered in plastic sheeting. Paint cans line the baseboards, and an antique sofa sits beneath a dusty white sheet.

“Wow,” I say. “You really committed to the whole tortured recluse thing.”

Grayson grunts.

“Needs work.”

“Needs an exorcism.”

“Not haunted.”