Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
You can’t be tortured for information you don’t have.
Gray doesn’t acknowledge me, which is for the best. I grab a new box and get back to work. The faster I complete this, the sooner I can get out of here.
I open the top and reach inside, my fingers hitting something smooth and cool. A picture frame. It’s the first personal item he’s had so far, and my curiosity is piqued.
The frame is placed on a blanket that appears to have been carefully wrapped around the picture at one point. It’s sturdy with the weight of a quality piece as I remove it from the box. I sit back on my knees and take in the image staring back at me.
A stunning blonde is bent over, laughing. Her eyes are lit up, and the wind is rippling her hair. She’s probably in her mid-twenties, if I were guessing, and holds a rugby ball.
Who is she?
She looks nothing like Gray, so unless one of them was adopted, I’m guessing it’s not his sister. The moment feels intimate, and the look in her eyes gives adoration. She has to be his girlfriend.
The thought makes me pause. The idea of grumpy Gray with his bad attitude having a girlfriend who is so … happy—carefree, even—is wild. Was he ever happy like that? Is he still with her? Or did they break up, and that’s why he’s a dick now?
I chew my bottom lip and glance around the room. I could put the frame on the kitchen island or tack it to a wall. But if she’s an ex, he might not want to be reminded of her every day. Only one way to find out …
“Where do you want me to put this?” I ask, holding up the picture.
He turns, his lips parted to speak, but as soon as his attention lands on my hand, his mouth slams shut.
“I could put it out here somewhere,” I say. “Or in your room.”
“Put that down.”
I ignore the chill in his voice. “Okay. Where?”
He slams the refrigerator door closed.
I avert my eyes from his and lay the picture back inside the box, then I carefully get to my feet.
My defense mechanisms kick in, shooting adrenaline into my veins. I’m hyperaware of his proximity, the sound of his movements in the kitchen, and the rapidness of my breath. I’m not sure what I’ve done to piss him off, only that I have.
“If you don’t want me going through your things—”
“This isn’t about that, Astrid.”
“That’s what it seems like, Gray.”
He holds my gaze from across the room. His scrutiny makes me squirm, mainly because we’re in his personal space and not a neutral one, which changes the dynamics. But I won’t be walked over just because he asked me to be here.
“Leave,” he says flatly.
“What the hell did I do—”
“Leave.” His icy tone chills me to the bone. “Please.”
What is happening?
He wasn’t exactly welcoming when I arrived, but he most certainly wasn’t like this. But this isn’t the first time he’s flip-flopped on me. He did it yesterday, too.
Maybe this is his pattern. He’s lukewarm, then ice-cold. Is that why Renn didn’t trust him to navigate the team on his own? He’s unpredictable. Hard to deal with. Insubordinate. How Renn believes he’s a “nice guy” is beyond me. He usually reads people so much better than this.
My throat squeezes, but I swallow through it.
“We need to get a couple of things straight,” I say, facing him and crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re not going to waste my time or play games with my head, by literally turning around and being a complete dickhead out of nowhere.”
He runs a hand down his face and groans.
“I don’t know what set you off in the locker room yesterday, or if it was your call or the picture today, but neither of them has anything to do with me,” I say, my voice rising. “I don’t understand.”
“You wouldn’t understand if I told you.”
His dismissive tone is flat and clipped. He’s shelving what I’m saying without ever hearing it. Like I’m heartless.
I stand taller, ripping my bag off the sofa, then I pin him to his spot with a dirty look. I hold tight to my anger. If it starts to slip, a vulnerable ache will take its spot in my chest, and my bruises will start to show. And I don’t show those to anyone.
“Believe it or not, I’m not a heartless bitch,” I say, spitting the words at him.
“Astrid …”
I pause with my hand on the doorknob. “Or maybe I am.”
If he says anything else, I don’t know what I’ll do. Explode? Cry? God, I’m not going to let him see me cry.
“Astrid—”
I yank the door open and close it between us before he has the chance to say something more.