If I were the type of person to read into a grunt, I’d think that grunt said so he’s always been an asshole.
Grey loves bees.
It’s not just his magic beeswax-biodegradable-plastic self-sealing cereal bags. The triplets told me last night that Grey used his first profits off of his patent to start building his own research lab with a tight friend from college. He has a solid reputation as a certified bee genius in certain circles. Works with universities and government organizations sometimes. And suddenly in early December, with no warning, he sold all of his research to a completely unknown company and signed off on an agreement to not do bee research for anyone but them for the next ten years.
Decker found a small corner of the internet where the bee-obsessed hang out, and he said there’s speculation that it was a sabotage job.
That Grey and his former business/research partner haven’t spoken other than through their lawyers ever since.
I tend to believe you only get a third of the story off the internet. And I know I’m missing pieces of the story.
But the man I met in Hawaii? The man who wanted to do good in the world despite indicating that he, too, was having a bad day? The man who made me feel like I was worthy of basic human affection on what was one of the worst nights of my life?
The man who was a friend when I needed one the most?
I want to believe he’s still inside this zipped-up man who only makes noncommittal grunts when I say Chandler’s name.
“Why were you in Hawaii?” I ask him.
Those blue eyes shift until he’s looking at me straight on. “To crash a wedding and destroy a man’s reputation.”
I swallow.
Hard.
“What did he do to you?” I whisper.
His eyes flick away.
“I’ll believe you, whatever you say. And I know it was bad. I know it had to have been bad.” I point to the picture of The Hive. “This is—this is next-level perfection. He’s a selfish ass. He deserves this. But there are so many people who will be collateral damage if you do this here.”
He still doesn’t look at me, and that’s when I notice the bags under his eyes and the droop in his shoulders. The dishes at the sink that suggest someone ate here already this morning. The slight scent of bacon lingering in the air.
He hasn’t slept.
That’s why I haven’t seen him.
If he’s needed to be here, he’s come at night.
When I’m not here.
“Please—” I start.
“I hear Mr. Twizzlers and his body shop business could move to a different spot in town if Ms. Red Robin spilled all the dirt she has on him.”
I gasp.
I actually gasp.
Mr. Twizzlers was my code name for Kurtis, our local chiropractor, and yes, I said he had a body shop business on Main Street.
Fine.
That one was probably easy.
But Ms. Red Robin was my code name for myself. The only time I used it was when I told him about the time I hid all of the flyers for the annual rodeo because I was mad that Addison was going to be crowned Rodeo Princess. And I changed all of those details. Something about an art festival and the Crochet King.
“Zen found all of the rodeo posters in a cubby under the desk,” Grey adds like he’s reading my mind. “I looked it up. Your friend Addison was crowned Rodeo Princess the same year as the flyers. You said you didn’t tell me anything about her, but this paints a picture that suggests she’s Ms. Taco Bell who might or might not have used blackmail to be crowned Ms. Crochet King at an art festival.”
“Oh, god,” I squeak. I’m not hungover anymore, but I wish I was. “That’s—that’s—”
“Genius?”
“Diabolical.”
One corner of his mouth lifts, and god help me, I want to kiss it.
I want to climb him, wrap my arms and legs around him, and kiss that corner of his mouth.
He can expose me.
He can tell everyone what he’s figured out, and he can probably put more pieces of gossip together.
And I want to kiss him for it.
“You can make the chiropractor move and re-open your café there,” he says quietly. “Then we both get what we want.”
He doesn’t promise to keep all of my secrets as his own.
He also doesn’t offer up anything else he might’ve figured out and pieced together.
He’s dangerous. And he definitely hates Chandler.
“Are you blackmailing me?” I ask. “Buying my compliance with your knowledge?”
He meets my gaze again, and this time, there’s zero mistaking what I’m reading in there.