Grayson's hand wrapped around hers, firm and certain, as he led her down the private hallway of his building and toward the penthouse suite. His touch alone was enough to make Olivia's pulse quicken, but the anticipation the ache from being away from him for what felt like a lifetime but had only been days was nearly unbearable.
When he unlocked the door and pushed it open, Olivia barely had a second to take in the view before he was on her.
But what she did see was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened to a sprawling, lit-up skyline of Manhattan glowing like it had been dressed up just for them. His apartment was warm in a way that surprised her: rustic, chic, deeply masculine.
Burnt orange and deep reds colored the space, from the vintage leather couch to the handwoven Navajo-inspired textiles layered across the hardwood floors. Green plants added life and intention; each one clearly cared for thriving in terracotta pots and matte black planters. The kitchen sat to the right, sleek and modern in form but grounded by exposed copper piping and open shelving that showed off hammered steel cookware and aged wood cutting boards.
It was handsome. It was him.
Grayson had her pinned against the door. His mouth crashed into hers, hungry and all-consuming. He kissed like he hadn't decided whether he wanted to worship her or ruin her. Maybe both. His hands roamed without direction like he couldn't decide where to settle her back, hips, and hair. He wanted it all.
She pressed her arms against him, then wrapped them around his neck, melting into him. Her body arched into his like it belonged there.
"God," he breathed between kisses, dragging his lips down her neck, "I missed this already."
His hand slid over her breast, squeezing gently through the thin fabric of her dress. Her breath hitched, the sound catching in her throat as her body betrayed her moaning softly, involuntarily, into his mouth.
Grayson responded instantly, grabbing both of her wrists and lifting them above her head, pinning them gently to the door as he pulled back to look at her. Her lips were swollen. Her breath was ragged, her eyes dark with need. He was enthralled wild with it.
He leaned in again, about to devour her, when his stomach growled loudly.
They both froze. The moment held… and then Olivia's lips twitched.
A second later, a laugh escaped her light and teasing.
"I can't believe you have such a hard-ass boss who wouldn't let you have lunch."
"I would've taken one," he said, half-defensive, half-laughing, "if I wasn't distracted all damn day by a certain someone."
She gave him a slow smile, dragging one finger down the center of his chest. "Well," she said, voice low, "we're in your house now. I think we should fix that, don't you?"
Grayson's eyes flickered with that signature spark of mischief. He leaned in again, voice a low rumble against her ear.
"Oh, I'm about to eat something," he murmured.
Olivia Blushed and tugged at her hands. He released them, kissed them, and stepped back from her. His eyes were still dark, full of passion and desire. Olivia could see that he was resting himself for now.
"Come on, I will cook you something to eat, and you can have a look around.
You know, before I starve to death." He intertwined his fingers with hers, guiding her towards the kitchen. She moved, almost breathless, through his space. The open space was even more impressive up close, an artful blend of modern design and earthy comfort. She took in the details that made it distinctly him. The art on the walls was eclectic, mostly bold abstracts and a few black-and-white photographs of the city at night. She paused in front of one, a silhouette of a lone figure standing beneath a streetlamp, rain falling in silvery sheets.
"Liam marks," Grayson said, coming behind her. "Got it at an auction last year."
"It's amazing." Her fingers brushed over the frame as she looked back at him.
He shrugged, trying for nonchalance but not quite pulling it off. "I liked it."
Olivia smiled at him, feeling warm all over. He watched her with that same intensity, like he couldn't believe she was real, a rare piece he'd somehow found his way to.
Grayson took her gently by the waist and spun her toward the kitchen. "You sit," he said, guiding her toward one of the leather-topped barstools at the island. "I'm feeding you before I do anything else that might make you pass out."
She arched a brow. "You have that much confidence in your cooking, huh?"
He smirked as he moved around the island. "I was talking about what happens after dinner, but sure—let's say it's the pasta."
She ran a fingertip along the rough edge of one cutting board, admiring its craftsmanship.
"Where did you get all this?" she asked. "It's... incredible."
"My mother," he said simply. "She sends me things to remind me I'm not allowed to live like a savage bachelor."
Olivia smiled at the affection in his voice. "She has excellent taste."
He opened the fridge and bent down to inspect its contents. Olivia couldn't help but admire the way his shirt stretched across his back and shoulders—professional, yes, but criminally well-fitted.
"Hope you're in the mood for Italian," he said, emerging with an armful of ingredients and placing them on the counter: fresh tomatoes, garlic, basil, a wedge of Parmesan, and a bag of fresh pasta.
"More than you know." She leaned back, her elbows resting on the island, eyes trailing him as he moved with surprising ease around the kitchen.
Grayson grinned as he grabbed a skillet from one of the open shelves. "I cook when I'm stressed. Or when I want to impress someone."
"Oh," she teased, "so which one am I?"
He looked over his shoulder, the glint in his eye unmistakable. "Do you really want to know?"
She shrugged, feigning indifference. "Just making sure you don't burn the garlic."
He tossed her a playful glare. "Bold of you to assume I'd let anything burn tonight."
Olivia tilted her head, eyes dancing. "You're making a lot of promises, Mr. Steel."
He turned, leaned his palms on the counter, and met her gaze—low, serious, a little wicked.
"I haven't even started making promises yet."
Grayson grinned at her before grabbing a skillet from one of the open shelves.
Grayson moved around the kitchen like it was second nature—pan sizzling, garlic blooming in olive oil, the scent already enough to make Olivia's stomach rumble.
He reached for a bottle of red from a small rack tucked beneath the counter—something rich, deep, and smooth—and handed it to her along with two glasses.
"Barbera," he said. "Pairs well with pasta, charm, and dangerously pretty women who ask difficult questions."
Olivia accepted it with a grin, turning the bottle in her hand. "You've got a wine for every mood, huh?"
He gave a soft laugh as he tossed fresh basil onto the counter. "You have no idea."
She poured them each a glass and handed him one. Their fingers brushed. Something charged passed between them—something unspoken but alive.
He leaned against the counter across from her, sipping. "So," he said, eyes steady on hers, "is our game still in play? Will you answer questions tonight?"
The words were playful. The tone wasn't.
Olivia felt the shift immediately. Subtle, but real.
She stared into her glass, swirling the red liquid slowly, pretending to consider the wine instead of the weight of his question.
Could she? Should she?
She wasn't sure. Her life had been compartmentalized for so long—boxes and walls and safety nets. Truth felt heavy when spoken out loud. And vulnerability wasn't something she gave away like wine samples at a Sunday market.
Still… she wanted to know him. Really know him.And maybe—just maybe—she wanted him to know her too.
She took a sip of wine, savoring it, then lifted her gaze to meet his.
"I'll play it by ear," she said slowly. "Depends on the questions. And your answers." She paused. "We don't have to give all our secrets out in one night. I'm not even sure if this…" she gestured vaguely between them, "is something we want yet."
Grayson opened his mouth to say something, but she beat him to it, her voice softening with a smile.
"But yes. The game is still in play, Mr. Steel. As always."
He grinned at that, something gleaming in his expression—part satisfaction, part respect.
"Then, little fox," he said, setting his glass down with intention. "Let the questions begin."
Grayson turned back to the stove, stirring the sauce with one hand while the other rested on the counter. The scent of garlic, tomato, and fresh basil filled the space, warm and grounding. The moment felt… easy. Which made what he was about to ask feel that much more dangerous.
He didn't look at her when he asked it. He let the sound of the simmering pan cushion the air between them.
"Alright," he said casually, "first question."
Olivia tilted her head, watching him.
"If you weren't doing what you're doing now," he said, glancing over his shoulder, "if you had no limits—no company, no obligations, no expectations—what would you be doing with your life?"
She blinked. That wasn't what she expected. Not yet, at least.
Not softball, but not an ambush either.
He was starting with the kind of question that said: I actually want to know you.
Olivia took a long sip of wine, buying herself a few seconds.
Her first instinct was to dodge—to give him something shiny and charming that sounded good out loud. There is something about opening a wine bar in Italy or traveling full-time with a suitcase and no Wi-Fi. But the thing was… he hadn't asked her to be clever. He'd asked her, to be honest.
And she'd promised she'd try.
She set her glass down and met his gaze.
"I think… I'd write," she said finally, surprising herself a little. "Nothing big. Not novels or anything. Just… stories. Little pieces of people. The kind that makes you feel something real."
Grayson turned fully toward her now, leaning back against the counter.
"Why don't you?"
She gave a slight shrug. "Because running a company doesn't leave much room for writing. And maybe… because it's easier to manage facts and forecasts than feelings."
His expression softened—just slightly. "So your dreams scare you."
She arched a brow. "Don't yours?"
He chuckled. "Constantly."
They locked eyes for a moment, both of them standing in that narrow space between past and possibility. Then she smiled again, playful, reclaiming the ease between them.
"My turn, Steel."
He gave a mock bow. "Hit me."
Olivia swirled the wine in her glass again, then lifted it to her lips without taking a sip, eyes narrowing playfully over the rim.
"Alright, Mr. Steel," she said. "Here's one for you."
He raised a brow, watching her with amused curiosity.
"If someone asked the people closest to you to describe you in one word…" she paused, her voice dropping just a little, "what word do you think they'd use?"
Grayson blinked, caught off guard. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he chuckled, without humor. "That's cruel."
She shrugged with a mock, innocent smile. "You said the game was still in play."
He leaned against the counter again, tapping the side of the wooden spoon against the edge of the pan. "One word," he repeated.
She nodded. "Just one. And not what you want them to say, but what you think they'd say."
Grayson was silent for a moment longer, his expression shifting into something contemplative. Less guarded.
"Reliable," he said finally. "I think that's what they'd say."
Olivia tilted her head, trying to read between the lines. "That doesn't sound like a bad thing."
"It's not." He looked at her, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "But it's not exciting either. It's the guy who shows up. The guy who doesn't screw it up. The guy who fixes things."
"And you don't want to be that?"
"I didn't say that." He looked back at the sauce, giving it one last stir before turning off the burner. "I just don't know if that's all I want to be."
Olivia let the silence settle. Not awkward, just full.
Then, softly, she said, "For what it's worth… I don't think anyone could ever call you boring."
Grayson looked up at her then, his gaze locking onto hers with something deeper behind it.
"Good," he said. "Because I'd really hate to disappoint you."
Grayson plated the pasta with practiced ease, topping each bowl with fresh basil and a generous dusting of Parmesan. He handed Olivia her plate, his fingers brushing hers.
"Alright," he said, settling across from her at the small dining table near the window, "tell me I just made the top five dinners of your life."
Olivia took a bite, closed her eyes in exaggerated bliss, and let out a soft hum. "Top three," she said around a mouthful. "But I reserve the right to bump it higher after the second glass of wine."
He laughed, already reaching for the bottle and topping off their glasses.
They ate in an easy, comfortable rhythm, the city glowing behind them, their movements unhurried. It was the kind of quiet that felt safe like it belonged to them.
Then Grayson leaned back, wine glass in hand, and looked at her with something playful in his eyes.
"Alright, Little Fox," he said. "Tell me, what were you like in high school?"
Olivia smiled, sitting back in her chair. "Really? That's your next question?"
"I'm building context," he said with a grin. "I want the origin story."
She chuckled softly, tapping her fingers against her glass. "Okay… I was a Chicago girl—sports girl through and through. Softball, track, volleyball—you name it. But I also wore lip gloss and studied for AP Chem like it was a sport. Full science club member. I could break down a frog and sprint a 200-meter relay in the same day."
Grayson's eyes lit with something close to admiration. "So you were the smart girl who could out-run and out-score half the boys?"
"Guilty," she said, smiling. "I was a girly tomboy. Well-rounded, slightly competitive, and overly obsessed with NASA for a solid two years."
He laughed. "Why does that not surprise me?"
She grinned. "Your turn. And don't lie I already know it wasn't football."
"Right," he nodded. "Baseball. All four years. Center field."
"I remember," she said softly.
His brow lifted. "You remember that?"
She nodded, eyes on her wine. "You told me. Back at the bar. It stuck."
Grayson went quiet for a moment, then smiled. "Yeah, I was the All-American overachiever. Baseball, student body president, journalism club… AP courses because my mom would've disowned me if I didn't take them."
Olivia tilted her head. "Let me guess, every teacher loved you, and every parent wanted their kid to be your friend."
He smirked. "Most teachers liked me. A few thought I was too opinionated. But yeah, I kept it clean. High expectations. Always did what I was supposed to do."
"And now?"
His smile faltered for just a breath. "Now I'm trying to figure out what I want outside of the expectations."
She watched him closely, reading between the lines.
He glanced at her, voice a little quieter. "That's part of why I stayed in Austin. After college, I could've gone anywhere. But I wanted to build something in a place that still felt like home. The headquarters is there. Always has been."
Olivia blinked, slightly surprised. "So you still live in Austin?"
He nodded. "This place in New York is more of a base for business. But home? That's still Texas."
There was something so real in how he said it simple, grounded. No pretense.
"Why tell me that?" she asked, her voice softer now.
Grayson leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Because if I'm going to ask you real questions, the least I can do is give you real answers."
Her chest tightened in a way she wasn't ready for.
"Okay," she said after a long moment. "Deal."
Olivia swirled her wine glass again, resting her elbow on the table as she leaned her cheek into her palm. She was smiling, a soft, curious kind of smile, eyes fixed on him like she was trying to solve a puzzle he didn't know he'd handed her.
"Austin, huh?" she said lightly, the question rolling off her lips with a lilt of interest.
Grayson gave a nod, watching her closely.
Her other hand traced the rim of her wine glass absently, her voice just as casual when she added, "So… am I invited to go?"
The question hovered for a second—flirty on the surface, but underneath it, something real. Something she couldn't quite hide.
Grayson didn't answer immediately.
She stopped tracing the glass and met his gaze full-on, the teasing edge still there but now joined by something quieter, something that said I'm not playing, not entirely.
His smile deepened, slower now, his fingers drumming lightly on the table.
"That depends," he said, voice low and smooth.
"On what?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"On whether you're coming to visit the headquarters…" he leaned in slightly, "or me."
Her breath hitched before she covered it with a scoff, playful but slightly breathless. "Careful, Mr. Steel. That almost sounded like a trick question."
"It's not," he said. "Just an honest one."
She held his gaze, her lips curving upward. "Then I guess my answer's also honest."
"And?"
She tilted her head, considering him. "I don't visit buildings."
His grin was slow and sure. "Good."
The soft clink of silverware against plates faded into a comfortable quiet. The wine was half gone, their plates were nearly cleared, and a soft, content energy had settled between them. Olivia rested her chin in her hand again, watching the shadows play along the edge of the table. For the first time in a long time, she felt full—not just from food, but from something else. Something she couldn't name yet.
Just as Grayson opened his mouth to say something, the sharp buzz of the intercom from the front lobby cut through the air.
He frowned, shifting slightly. "I didn't—"
"Actually," Olivia cut in, casually lifting her wine glass, "I did."
Grayson blinked. "You ordered something?"
She smiled into her glass. "I thought it might go well with dinner. Tell them to send it up."
He still looked a little stunned as he moved to the panel and buzzed security to bring it up. A few moments later, there was a polite knock, and a uniformed staff member delivered a simple white box with a gold embossed sticker from one of the city's well-known bakeries.
When Grayson opened it, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. "A whole tiramisu cake?"
She shrugged, her voice light. "I thought it would pair well, since we were having pasta." Then she smirked. "Little fox surprises."
He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he brought the box to the table. "You sure do."
They settled in again, plates cleared and new dessert plates set in front of them. Grayson cut into the cake and served her a slice, then one for himself. He watched her closely as she took her first bite.
Olivia's eyes closed the moment the flavor hit her tongue. She gave a low, pleased hum, almost forgetting he was watching. Her lashes fluttered open and she immediately blushed. "Sorry. It's one of my favorite desserts."
Grayson was still watching her, leaning back with that same quiet intensity he'd carried all evening. "I'll keep that in mind."
He smiled, nudging the plate slightly toward her, teasing. "I believe it's your turn for a question, Ms.Webber."
She gave a slow nod. "It is."
She tapped her fork against her lips in thought. "Hmm…" Then her gaze sharpened, and she pointed gently toward the chain around his neck. "I want to know what the ring you wear around your neck means."
The smile that had been resting on Grayson's face faded slowly. He glanced down, fingers instinctively brushing the metal through his shirt before pulling it out. A simple, worn gold ring hung from a thin silver chain.
Olivia instantly noticed the shift in him and set her fork down, her tone softening. "Hey… look, if you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to."
Grayson stared at the ring for a moment. Silent.
"No… it's fine," he said finally, voice lower now. "I knew you'd seen it. Figured I'd have to explain it eventually."
She didn't speak; she just watched him, allowing the moment to belong to him. He turned the ring slowly in his fingers as if drawing strength from it.
"I'm the oldest of three," he started. "I think I mentioned that. Two younger sisters Marybelle is twenty-nine, and Lainey is twenty-five. They call me the overachiever, the perfectionist, the fixer. I've always been that way."
His voice had steadied, but something in his eyes flickered with emotion.
"My dad was the one who pushed me to be all that. Not in a bad way, just... he set the standard. He was the definition of honorable. Volunteer work, fundraisers, he even created a charity gala that became a yearly tradition in our town."
Grayson paused, looking down at the table. His fingers were still gently rolling the ring.
"He was the kind of man people respected. And he was a great dad. Present. Solid. Taught me how to lead. How to be."
Olivia's heart tugged at the reverence in his voice.
Then he glanced up at her again, slower this time. "There's something I should probably tell you before I finish the rest of this."
She raised an eyebrow, trying to keep it light. "Please don't tell me you're married... or secretly moonlight as a cowboy poet or something."
He didn't smile. "No," he said quietly. "Not anymore."
The smile dropped from her face. Her breath caught.
"I'm divorced."
The words hit like a soft thud in the space between them—quiet, honest, heavy.
Olivia sat up a little straighter, processing. She didn't look away from him. "Okay," she said softly.
He gave a tiny nod, like he was grateful she didn't flinch.
"I met her the summer before my senior year of high school," he said, voice steady but quieter now. "A bunch of my closest friends and I were down at the lake for graduation weekend. She was there with some of her friends. Turns out, she was going to the same college I was."
He paused, not looking at Olivia, just turning the ring over between his fingers.
"We connected really fast. That fall, during freshman year… my dad died." His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Brain aneurysm. Right there in the kitchen. My mom held him while it happened. He was gone before the paramedics even made it inside."
Olivia's breath caught softly, her hand still resting near his on the table.
"She was there for me," he continued. "Back then, I thought that meant something. I thought it meant everything."
He finally looked up, and his jaw flexed as the edge in his voice returned.
"What I didn't realize was that the same girl who was comforting me was also quietly tearing my life apart. My ex-wife—she was toxic. Manipulative. A professional liar. She found a way to wedge herself between everyone I trusted—my family, my sisters, even some of my friends."
His voice hardened.
"For years, I didn't see it. I didn't want to see it. I thought I had something solidsomeone loyal. Turns out, what I had was a ten-year con. Lies. Gaslighting. Control. Even a fake pregnancy… and a fake miscarriage."
Olivia's eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing—just listened, still and present.
"That was the moment everything snapped into focus. It was like waking up after years of being underwater. I filed for divorce. And I've never looked back."
He exhaled slowly like the air had been caught in his chest for too long.
"I'm free now. Finally."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable—it was thick with weight, trust, and something that felt almost sacred. Olivia didn't rush to fill it. She let it breathe.
Then, carefully, she reached for her wine, took a slow sip, and looked at him—not with pity, but with respect.
"Grayson," she said softly, "thank you for trusting me with that."
His eyes met hers again, and there was no deflection this time. No bravado. Just truth.
"I wanted you to know," he said. "All of it. Not because I expect anything from you... but because I don't want to be that version of me anymore. The one who keeps things locked up. The one who lets silence fill in the blanks."
Her expression warmed. "You're not that guy. Not anymore."
He nodded, the ring still hanging between his fingers resting against his chest again.
The tiramisu sat primarily untouched on both plates, but neither of them seemed to care. They were both full of something far more important.
Grayson picked up his fork and dug into the tiramisu, taking a generous bite. "Mmm," he murmured, trying to lighten the air between them, "this is really good."
Olivia smiled softly, picking up her fork again and taking another bite. The dessert was delicious, but her thoughts had already begun to drift.
A quiet hum settled over them. Not awkward—just heavy. Weighted with the kind of truths neither of them had planned to unpack tonight.
She found herself thinking about him—the Asshat. The one who had wasted her time, who had made her doubt her worth. She'd been through things, sure. But nothing like what Grayson had just shared.
This man sitting across from her had been married. Had walked down the aisle, said I do, believed it was forever… and had it all shattered.
How could she ask him to trust her now, when she'd been playing games, hiding feelings behind clever texts and witty remarks?
Was this a path worth walking? Or a heartbreak waiting to happen?
She wasn't eating anymore. Just moving her fork through the dessert, lost in thought, pretending.
Grayson noticed.
"Hey… Little Fox," he said gently, drawing her attention. "I see those wheels turning. And when that happens, I usually end up with cold sheets and a lot of regret."
Olivia glanced up at him, startled.
"Talk to me," he said, his voice softer now, more serious. "Please. I don't know what you're thinking. Hell, I neverknow what you're thinking, Olivia. Which—frustrating as it is—might be exactly why I'm so damn infatuated with you."
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it—low, warm, and a little self-conscious. She stood, picking up her plate, and carried it to the sink. Then she grabbed the wine bottle and both glasses, motioning him toward the couch.
"Since we're telling secrets tonight," she said, glancing back at him, "I think I should tell you a story."
Grayson raised his eyebrows with intrigue and followed her over. She poured fresh wine into both glasses, handed him one, and settled in the center of the couch. Grayson sat close beside her, their knees almost touching.
"I think I should start by saying," she began slowly, "our stories with father figures are… surprisingly similar. With a few variations."
Grayson watched her closely, giving her space to unfold it.
"I don't remember my biological dad," she said. "And from what I've heard—mainly from my older brother—it's probably for the best. He wasn't a great man. My mom remarried when I was maybe four or five. My stepdad already had a daughter—she's about ten years older than me—but we blended really well. He treated me like a princess."
A small smile curved her lips. "Well… as much as a girly tomboy princess could be."
They both chuckled softly.
"I had a great childhood," she continued. "My stepdad and mom were happy. My sister found an amazing husband and had twins—they have this perfect little life, and I've always loved that for them. I wanted that too. Who wouldn't?"
She paused, took a breath.
"I met the Asshat seven years ago."
Grayson's brow lifted. "Asshat?"
She smirked. "Yeah. I don't usually use his actual name anymore."
He grinned, easing back slightly. "Fair."
"Paul Kingsley the third, if we're being formal. But let's stick with Asshat."
Grayson laughed, the tension between them finally softening again.
"We met at a work convention. Not pharma—his company just happened to be hosting something at the same hotel. We met at the bar. Classic rom-com setup, right?" Her smile faded slightly. "It started normal. Dating. Infatuation. Eventually love, or what I thought was love."
Her voice quieted.
"Over time, I realized I wasn't his person. I was his filler. A comfortable option. The one who understood his schedule, let him off the hook, never pushed too hard. I made excuses—for years. Seven of them, to be exact. About why he never moved in. Why didn't we get serious? Why didn't he come on my family holiday? Always career. Timing. Travel."
She shook her head, laughing bitterly. "And then, after all of it… he told me, like he was offering closure, that I could never be his wife. That we had fun. That it was a great run."
She looked down at her hands, voice catching. "I'm more mad at myself than at him. Because I let it happen. I let the hope keep me hanging on."
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
Grayson didn't hesitate. He reached out, placing his palm gently against her face, his thumb brushing away the tear.
"Hey," he said softly. "Don't do that, Little Fox. That Asshat doesn't deserve your tears. Not anymore."
She blinked, eyes shining, and gave a shaky smile. "You're right."
He nodded. "I am right. Because now that I've found you…" His voice deepened. "I'm not letting you go."
And then he kissed her—soft, firm, and full of promise.
When he pulled back, Olivia stared at him, breathless. And then, with a glint in her eye, she leaned back just slightly.
"Technically," she said with a teasing smirk, "I found you first."
Grayson blinked. "Huh?"