Page 114 of Mr. Wicked

I didn’t care if we spent the rest of the night arguing where I could prove how wrong and ridiculous he was. I needed to eat. “Will you go somewhere casual? And not bougie like usual? So I can wear this and I don’t have to change?”

“And here I thought you were going to decline my offer.” He’d left his wallet on the counter after tipping the movers and he shoved it into his back pocket.

“I know that’s what you really wanted, but I’d rather torture you with my presence.”

“Sounds like it’s going to be the perfect dinner.” He chuckled. “How about the pub across the street?”

“Yesss.”

“Then let’s go,” he said, walking to the door.

I quickly grabbed my purse from the guest bedroom and rushed to meet up with him at the elevator.

The ride down to the lobby was silent. Fortunately, I kept my hat low, so I could look at him without being so obvious. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, his eyes on the door, his expression full of focus, like he was deep in thought.

I was so curious about what ran through his mind.

Did Grayson ever self-reflect on his choice of words? Did he ever regret the things he said?

Did he ever say one thing but mean another?

And I understood why he protected himself with a thick outer layer—after what he experienced with his mother, he struggled with trust—but I just wished he didn’t wear a shield all the time. That there were more moments when he’d hang that metal coating in the closet and show me the softness that was underneath.

The elevator opened before we reached the bottom, and an older woman walked in. She smiled at us, and since we were standing against the far wall, she gave us her back to face the front.

I was focused on the screen that showed our descent, the number changing with each floor, when Grayson whispered, “I thought that was going to be your chance.”

I tried to piece together his statement. “Excuse me?”

“Your future husband.” He nodded toward the woman. “Too bad, isn’t it?”

My God.

He didn’t self-reflect at all.

The man was just a constant, relentless asshole.

I shot him my middle finger, and when the door slid open, we allowed the woman to leave first and quickly passed her in the lobby, exiting through the front and crossing the street to the pub. We sat at a table near the bar, and just as I was taking my phone out of my purse so I wouldn’t have to make small talk with Mr. Asshole, a waiter approached.

“What can I get you to drink?” he asked.

“Everything,” I replied.

He laughed. “Ironically, I can probably make that happen.”

While I pondered, Grayson said, “Since she can’t make up her mind, I’ll take an extra-dirty martini.”

My mouth watered at the thought of sipping something olive flavored. “I’ll have the same.”

“Coming right up—” The waiter paused midsentence, staring at me much more intensely than when he’d first come to our table. “Hey, you’re Jovana, aren’t you?”

I held the top of my hat while I glanced up at him. “I am.”

“I follow you on Instagram. My girlfriend got me into you. Well, ex-girlfriend now. I dumped the girl but kept you around.” He laughed as though he realized how weird that sounded. “I like your vibe. I even bought that fanny pack thing you’ve been wearing for the last couple of months for my sister. She loves it.”

This wasn’t the first time I’d been recognized.

Each time, I found it so odd. Fantastic for business, but still ... odd.

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