Page 101 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
That kind of thinking is exactly what could get me in trouble, and I've already been trying so hard not to get in trouble. I can't fall in love with Grayson Wolfe, and I definitely can't start thinking he's falling for me.
But then there's that small, treacherous voice on my shoulder whispering, Why not? Would it really be so bad?
And honestly, what other explanation is there for what he did?
We're friends, but friendship alone doesn't trigger that kind of fury. It wasn't for show either; he wasn't acting. He's not that good an actor.
For a split second, it looked like he didn't even realize what he'd done. Like it was pure instinct.
Which means…
It could only mean?—
A blaring honk behind me jolts me out of my thoughts. The light's green. I wave an apology in the rearview mirror and hit the gas, lurching forward a little too fast. Smooth, Jenna. Real smooth.
Grayson had left the event early—probably because his presence was making people uneasy after the outburst. After he went, I overheard some of the shareholders talking about him. The opinions were mixed. Some said he'd gone overboard; others thought the guy he punched had it coming. Apparently, that man has a reputation for being a drunk who starts fights.
The event carried on without any more drama and, all things considered, it was a success. I got a lot of compliments about the venue and the artwork, and that should've made me happy. But I couldn't fully enjoy it. My mind kept drifting back to Grayson, wondering if he was okay, if he regretted what he'd done, if he even cared.
When I finally pull into the underground garage, I spot his Ferrari and his Mercedes—the two cars he drives himself—parked in their usual reserved spots, next to the Bentley. Which means he's home.
The elevator ride up to the penthouse feels endless, though I know it's just the same two minutes as always. My pulse quickens the higher it climbs. I don't know what kind of mood he'll be in when I see him.
Angry? Remorseful? Distant?
Or something worse. Something too raw to define.
Using my keycard to let myself in, I wander through to the living room. The whole place feels quieter than it has in days. Usually, when one of us gets home first, the other waits here just to give them some good-natured shit when they come back.
But there's no teasing now.
Instead, I find Grayson standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out over Central Park, a glass of brandy in his hand. He looks like he's been there a long time, frozen, brooding, lost in thought.
I drop my handbag onto the couch and walk toward him. "Grayson? Can we talk?"
He turns to look at me, his eyes dull and distant, like he's still half in whatever storm is raging in his head.
I spread my hands. "What happened back there? Why did you go off on that guy?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Are you seriously asking me that? Did you not hear what he said?"
"Yeah, but I thought you'd just brush it off. Like I did."
"Brush it off?" He sounds almost offended that I'd suggest it. "You thought I should brush off some drunk bastard calling my fiancée a whore?"
"Grayson, I hear stuff like that from idiots all the time. It's really not a big deal."
He sets the glass down on the sideboard and steps toward me, bringing with him the warm scent of cologne and brandy.
"You hear that from who?" he demands, eyes sharp and searching. "Tell me their names."
"Why — so you can go beat them up too?" I joke, trying to defuse the tension.
But he doesn't even crack a smile.
"Yeah," he says, dead serious.
My heart stumbles, skipping a beat. His intensity feels like a physical thing, pressing against me, closing the air between us.
