Page 38 of Defended By Love

The zipper slides down, sounding like two cheese graters fucking inside a dryer. After another big exhale, he turns to face me and shrugs off the shoulder of his suit. Underneath are the angriest red blotches that I’ve ever seen in my life. They look like caricatures of hives, over exaggerations used for cheesy infomercials. I’m itchy just looking at them.

“Oh god!” I yell. Then, I remember his mom upstairs. “Yes, go shower. Do whatever you need to do to make those go away.”

“Thank goodness,” he breathes.

He practically rips the rest of the spandex. To my delight, he’s only wearing his birthday suit underneath. While it is spotted and streaked with scarlet, he’s still a fine specimen of a man.

“I’ll be out as soon as…” He gestures to his spots, which I swear are making faces at me. Possibly threatening me with (another) slow and painful death.

“Go!” I wave him on. “Just know that I’m going to snoop through every inch of your place while you’re in the shower.”

He chuckles. “Clearly you put all your points into brains and beauty and not stealth.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

He opens his mouth and then closes it. “Nothing. But if you find a green tube of cream that smells like watching Matlock, hang onto it.”

With that, he turns and practically runs to the bathroom. I waste valuable snooping time staring after his ass, wondering how something so patchy can be so biteable.

When I finally get to snooping, it’s an absolute treasure trove for the curious. Compared to the barren penthouse, his couple rooms in the basement are overflowing with personal touches. Too much in fact. Almost literally everything tells a story in here—from the dusty ukulele to the sketchbook filled with observational humour told from the perspective of two cockroaches (one sassy, one sincere).

It takes everything in me to take a breath and prioritize. As much as I want to, I will not run amok like a kid in a stationary store. At least until I’ve found out everything I need to know.

First on my list of things I need to know is his identity. While it’s becoming increasingly unlikely that the billionaire Zagreus Hart lives in his mother’s basement, I’m still not prepared to completely rule it out. The rich are sometimes the most frugal.

A quick scan of the room leads me to a side table in his living room, where he keeps his mail—and I do mean keeps his mail. While I shred all unwanted mail immediately and file all necessary correspondence, Grant apparently leaves it on this table and waits for it to spontaneously compost itself.

There are hundreds of letters and flyers, all bearing the name Grant Morgan. From junk mail offering him insane deals on cruises, to ripped open, empty Comicon envelopes, it all says Grant.

His name is Grant.

He’s not Zagreus Hart.

A tension I’d been holding in between my shoulder blades unlocks. Immediately, I feel better. Even if Grant is just Zagreus’s henchman, at least he’s not the big bad.

At least he didn’t lie to me about his name. That would’ve been a hard one to come back from.

Next on my list of priorities is to find out what he does at Hart Link. If he’s not Zagreus Hart, he still has to be someone ultra important to have the kind of clearance Marigold showed me he had. They don’t let just anyone into the big offices. Even I’ve scarcely been in the name partners’ offices.

The sound of the water stopping kicks me into action. I close my eyes and flick through the information I’ve been amassing on Hart Link Incorporated. I try to imagine every file, hoping something will jump out at me.

Then it does.

The pictures of the employees on the ferry. Many of them were still wearing their I.D. badges when they got off. Makes sense. Since the dress code on the island seems to be casual, it seems like something you’d forget until the end of the day. Not like the uncomfortable clothes that I have to wear for work. I’m always shucking off my heels the second I get in my car. I’m always eager to rid myself of every last vestige of my work uniform.

Not so with a casual one. If I wore casual clothing to work (the thought slithers uncomfortably up my spine), I’d probably keep everything as is. I’d just wear my I.D. badge home and then put it somewhere I wouldn’t forget so I could grab it in the morning. I’d probably put it with something else I couldn’t forget.

Like my keys.

They’re the first thing I drop off into a small dish by my front door when I get home. That way they’re also the last thing I can grab on my way out. They never get lost because they have a set spot. I imagine I.D. badges are similar—especially for such a high security place.

When we first got down here, there was a slim bookcase with some knickknacks on it. Moving briskly, I hustle over there. It’s a long shot, but I have nothing else to go on. I break into a run when I hear the bathroom door open.

Most of the shelves on the bookcase are filled with books, ones I would love to explore and read, just to get a better sense of him. Despite myself and despite the urgency of the situation, I get a quick flash of us lying in bed, tangled in sheets, talking about the books we’re both reading.

One shelf, the one at waist height for Grant’s tall frame, is filled with knickknacks, including a medium-sized pottery bowl. As soon as I pull it down, I know I’ve hit the jackpot. There are keys and… an I.D. badge.

I nearly drop the bowl.

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