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“Good girl,” he sighs, relief filling his features. He lets me slide down to my feet and regain my balance before tugging me along again. The next time he stops, it’s in front of a small elevator in the very back of the restaurant. He looks at me expectantly. “So what exactly does everyone think this elevator is for?”

I feel like I’m missing something. I glance at the elevator then look back at him in confusion. “I don’t know, storage? I’ve honestly never thought about it. Why, do you have some kinkyPhantom of The Operasituation where you’re living in the restaurant pulling strings, sending death threats, and watching our every move?”

He stares at me blankly.

“Oh my God, you live above the restaurant,” I gasp, wondering how I never realized it before now.

“It’s not like it’s a weird perversion,” he scoffs. He pulls a key card from his wallet and swipes it over the security panel on the elevator. “Almost all of the restaurants and cafes in Paris have apartments above them.”

“Yeah, but this isn’tParis, Greyson. And Grey’s isn’t just some restaurant. This is themost exclusive restaurant in the city. I thought you’d want to fuck off to some secluded mansion in the country to escape all your adoring fans.”

“I’ve always lived in big cities,” he answers with a shrug. “It’s what I’m used to. Wide-open, empty spaces with no crowds make me uncomfortable.” He gets into the open elevator and waits for me to follow suit.

I hesitate a moment before getting in and watching the doors close on my only escape route. I guess I’m trapped now. If I’m honest, Greyson has had me trapped for a while—it just suddenly feels very real now. “Dios mío,” I shriek, suddenly realizing that all those late nights and early mornings I spent alone in the kitchen cleaning up and practicing, I wasn’t the only one in the restaurant. “So all those times you made me stay late?—”

“I was upstairs jerking my cock to the view of you bent over scrubbing dishes each and every time,” he gloats.

“You’re vile,” I seethe, replaying everything I ever did while he was watching in secret. How much of an eyeful did he get?

“Mmm,” he hums. “Want me to prove it?”

The elevator dings at level two and the doors spring open. I stare at the panel, noticing that there’s a third floor. “What’s on three?” I ask, unable to stave off my curiosity.

“The torture chamber you were so interested it,” he deadpans.

I smirk up at him, fully prepared to tease him about hisgrotesque sense of humor. But when he stares down at me, the set of his jaw is serious, and I remember something that sends my heart thundering in my chest.

Greyson doesn’t lie.

Chapter Twenty

GREYSON

My poor angel looks like she’s going to bolt. I hate to break it to her, but it’s a little late for that now. “Don’t worry,” I purr, dragging her from the elevator when her legs seem to be stuck between fight or flight. “You’re safe tonight. Torture is more of a second date kind of thing.”

“Estupendo,” she mutters, sarcasm thick in her voice.

Her dark eyes drift around the room, taking in every little detail of my apartment like it will tell her all the secrets she never dared to ask me. I’m a private person, so very few people have actually been allowed access to my home. The fact that she’s standing in my living room right now is a louder declaration of my feelings for her than any empty words I could use to tell her.

“It’s not what I expected,” she comments while doing a three sixty turn in the center of the room. She studies the black walls and ceilings, the heavy black drapes lining the windows, the twin black chandeliers dangling above a long, black-cherry colored sofa before her eyes fall on the black, marble floors. “I thought the all black was a work thing.”

“No, it’s more of a personality thing. Black soul as a lifestyle choice.”

She cracks a smile. “Suits you.”

“It does,” I agree, walking to the built-in bar on the far side of the living room. “So what’s your poison?”

“What?” she asks, her head snapping up in my direction.

“Drink preference,” I answer, waving a bottle of my favorite whisky in the air. “If we cook dinner sober, it’ll just feel like work,” I add with a laugh.

“Oh, umm I’m not sure.” She rubs her palm up and down her right thigh, a nervous tick that I picked up on a couple weeks after she started working at Grey’s. “Margarita?” she answers finally.

“Fuck no, angel. Arealdrink.”

“Why don’t you surprise me, chef?” There’s an obvious note defiance in her voice, and it makes me want to throw her on the ground and fuck it right out of her.

“Alright.” I run my eyes over her perfect body, thinking of what flavors come to mind. Something sweet. Acidic. Spiced. Rifling through my bottles of liquor and additives, I pick out Mezcal, cinnamon syrup, fernet and pull a coupe glass from the shelf of various cocktail and whisky glasses. I grab a whisky glass for myself and pour a triple shot neat.