Page 16 of Play Me

The top of the first box is already open.

I peer inside … and try not to gasp. A myriad of items are crammed inside like a toddler was given the task.

A skillet is wedged between a bathroom towel and a book.

Bottles of supplements are strewn across the bottom.

Are all the boxes like this? I open another one and find a bottle of shampoo hanging out with a coffee maker.

For a moment, all I can do is stare. This mess prickles every bit of my organizational-loving heart. Gray doesn’t need an assistant. The guy needs a mother.

I take a long, deep breath. Think of it as an opportunity to set something right in the world so you don’t crash out—even if that something is just Gray’s socks.

Not sure where to start, I pull a smaller box from beneath a pair of shorts that seem to have been casually tossed on the stack like the star on a strange version of a Christmas tree.

It’s lighter and rattles slightly. I open it carefully.

“Hey,” I say, pulling out the contents. “This is cool.”

A chessboard that appears to be handmade with a dark wood and teal-hued resin catches the light above me. A drawer is made into the bottom to hold the chess pieces. It’s heavy and solid and beautiful—and, thankfully, undamaged.

I glance up and catch Gray watching me. It’s only now that I realize I’ve been talking out loud.

“Oh, I wasn’t talking to you,” I say flippantly. “I was just admiring your board.”

He lifts a brow as if this surprises him. “Do you play?”

I place the board gently on the sofa.

“I love chess,” I say, grabbing another box and peering inside. “But I play mostly in my driveway.”

“In your driveway?”

“Some people sit in the driveway and listen to music,” I say, moving a few towels out of my view. “I sit in mine and play chess.”

“Why don’t you just play it in the house like everyone else on earth?”

It’s all kitchen stuff. “Because the habit started when I was avoiding going in the house.” I lift the hefty package, swallowing my groan, and carry it to the kitchen.

“Do you need my help?” he asks, setting his marker down.

“Nope.”

“Your face is turning red.”

I grimace, placing the load on the counter. “Kind of you to notice.”

He dips his chin and picks the marker back up. I think he mutters something under his breath, and it’s probably for the best that I can’t hear it.

I busy myself by finding a spot for his four seasonings, a trivet, and six kitchen towels that should be laundered before they’re used.

A cutting board, I think, made of marble, weighs nearly as much as I do .

Odd thing for him to have, but whatever.

He has a can opener, two knives, and one measuring cup, and I leave them on the counter.

Then I find another box of kitchen supplies and haul them into the room, too.

It’s such a nice distraction from the situation with Trace.

This is not as bad as I imagined. Twenty minutes have passed, and not only have I made progress, but Gray and I haven’t killed each other.

It’s a small victory I’m too happy to take.

I appreciate the opportunity to create order somewhere since I can’t seem to do it in my own life.

This also feeds a morbid curiosity about how he lives.

It’s like running a background report on him without visiting a sketchy website for the information and risking getting a virus. And seeing photos I can’t unsee …

I find a few canned goods, but there’s no pantry in the kitchen. The logical place to put them is on the top shelf above the spices and protein powders, but I can’t quite reach. So I line up the cans so they’ll be easily accessible and then hop onto the counter.

“What are you doing?” Gray asks as if it’s killing him to watch me.

My knees dig into the countertops, and I balance myself. “What’s it look like I’m doing?”

“Looks like you’re trying to break an arm.”

“Don’t worry.” I grimace, trying to move around in the narrow space. “If that happens, I’ll drive myself to the hospital.”

He groans, huffing behind me. “Why don’t you just ask for help?”

“Because I don’t need it.” I place the cans perfectly equidistant from each other in the middle of the shelf.

“You think I’m joking. I broke my arm in the third grade by jumping out of a swing on the playground.

My dad was half in a bottle of vodka when I got home from school.

” I add a final can of green beans to the lineup.

“I couldn’t take the pain by dinner, so I walked to the hospital. ”

I pause to appreciate the perfection of the cabinet before hopping off the counter with a little more coordination than I knew I had in me. Score! Gray’s eyes follow me to the living room, and they’re hot on my back as I open another box.

My body temperature rises as I play my broken arm story back through my mind and wish I hadn’t shared that with him.

He doesn’t need to know anything about me, and God knows he doesn’t deserve to have that kind of access to my life.

Men like him are gatherers and hunters. They gather information, then hunt you down with it.

I glance inside the next box and shove it away. I don’t want to ask him for help, but there’s no way around this one. “You’re going to have to deal with this one. It goes to the kitchen.”

“Too heavy for you?”

I look up and sigh. “No, it’s too peanutty for me. I’d rather not go into anaphylaxis here and have to call the paramedics while gasping for air.” I pause. “Not that I couldn’t do it.”

“Of course you could,” he deadpans, hopping off the chair. This time, I don’t think fast enough to keep myself from getting an eyeful.

Ho-ly shit.

Gray’s body wasn’t built. It was crafted. Forged. His chest is barreled, and his abdomen is stonelike. His legs are just short of tree trunks—thick thighs and strong calves. Scars and bruises accent his skin as much as the dark ink that embraces his left upper leg.

He’s a machine that moves with an oddly refined grace.

Even the devil was once an angel.

I gulp and refocus on the box, contemplating whether to move it myself. But Gray is at my side before I can get the courage to go through with it.

“Where do you want it?” he asks.

“That should go in the spice cabinet above the coffee maker.” I hold my breath as he reaches in front of me and grasps the jar.

Whiffs of his body wash caress me almost criminally.

It lingers in the air long after he’s walked away, and I mentally berate myself for noticing it.

“Open a few drawers while you’re in there and let me know what you think. ”

“Searching for external validation?”

“Some of us didn’t have our needs met as children.

” An unwelcome blush colors my cheeks, betraying my instructions to be cool.

I make a face like I’m being a smart-ass, so he doesn’t weaponize that against me later either.

“Anyway, I don’t care whether you like it or not.

You can move stuff around if you hate it. ”

“I’m sure I will.”

Fucker . I turn to the rest of the boxes and make a production out of sorting through them.

His clothes are crammed into two boxes, mostly T-shirts, shorts, and joggers.

A couple of pairs of jeans. There are a few hoodies and a heavy coat, but aside from boxer briefs and socks, that’s about it.

I’m not sure what I expected, but it strikes me as odd.

Doesn’t he own a pair of pants or a dress shirt? A belt? A tie?

A phone rings and I turn to see if it’s mine, but before I can even reach for my bag, he’s answering his.

“Hello,” he says, his voice low. He licks his lips while he listens. “Are you kidding me? I thought it would be in my account this week.”

I fold his shirts, thinking he should really use fabric softener, and try not to listen.

“I can’t wait two weeks,” he says, his voice full of gravel that rakes across my skin. “You’ll have to figure it the fuck out.” He stares at the cabinets while he listens to whoever’s on the other side of the call. “Yeah, that’s not gonna work. I don’t care how you phrase it.”

Standing with the stack of shirts in my hands, I carry them to his bedroom.

Gray’s voice carries through the apartment like a roll of thunder.

It’s so distracting that I can’t even snoop around his room.

Instead, I stand at his dresser, one hand gripping the top edge, and listen. Who is he talking to?

“That’s not my problem,” he says. “Call me back and tell me when I’ll have the money. I need at least half of it by the end of the week.”

The sound of what I assume is a phone hitting a countertop makes me grimace.

I unload the shirts into a drawer as quickly as I can and then return to the living room. My steps are hesitant, and I move as quietly as possible. His conversation doesn’t seem to have gone well, and I’m not sure what his mood will be like now.

He’s standing at the fridge when I enter, his back muscles flexing and his spine stiff.

He’s pissed … and I have no idea what to do.

I’m not asking him what’s going on because it’s none of my business, but Renn also said there were whispers about Gray having a gambling problem.

If this involves the mob or an underground betting ring, I’m better off not knowing anything.

I’ve watched enough movies to know that.

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.