Page 42 of Ruin Me Gently

The quiet chime of the private elevator echoing through the penthouse stopped me mid-way through a set of bicep curls.

There were only four other people on the planet with access to that elevator. And unless Mamma and my sisters had suddenly decided to cross more than a few state lines, unannounced—an event that would require six months of planning, three thousand texts, and a PowerPoint presentation—there was only one other person it could be, and he better have a damn good reason for showing up.

The dumbbells hit the rack with a clang, and I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall. My chest was rising and falling way too hard, whirls of tattoos stretched tight against my muscles, sweat dripping down my body. A few damp curls clung to my forehead, and my jaw was locked like I was seconds away from snapping at someone.

“You’ve got something wrong with you,” I muttered to myself, twisting the cap off my water bottle and taking a steady pull, the cool water unfortunately doing nothing to settle the contradictory storm that was running riot in my head.

I grabbed a towel and dragged it across the back of my neck as I stepped out of the gym, my bare soles meeting the chill of the cool hardwood that stretched across the open-plan floor.

The kitchen came into view as I crossed the space. It was perfect, like the rest of the penthouse—warm wood and white marble streaked with grey, a copper range hood gleaming over the island. There was no clutter. No misplaced utensils. It was clean. Orderly. The way everything should be.

The one thing fucking it up was the sound of someone loudly rummaging through my fridge.

I stopped mid-step, head tilting slightly as I stared right at the cause.

Sure enough, there he was, hanging halfway out of the enormous, double fridge like he was searching for the lost city of Atlantis in the vegetable drawer.

“Are you planning on moving in there?” I muttered as I watched him shift containers around with the grace of a bear foraging for leftovers.

Finn didn’t even flinch, just called out over his shoulder. “You havenothingin here, man. Do you even eat? Or do you just live off black coffee and misplaced rage?”

Crossing my arms, I leaned against the marble island.

“There’s plenty in there. Just nothing youlike.Sorry it’s not all candy and whatever processed garbage keeps you alive.”

He rummaged deep, then held up a container of cherry tomatoes. “This,” he shook it, scowling. “Isnotfood.”

“You know where the door is.”

He huffed, then paused—mid-motion, mid-thought, mid-everything. I sighed, already bracing for whatever bullshit was about to leave his mouth.

“Alright, that’s it,” he snapped.

“What?”

“This. You.” He gestured wildly in my direction. “It’s been weeks. No, months. Maybe a whole damn year? When’s the last time you went out?”

“I go out.”

“For meetings, you antisocial motherfucker.” He shot back. “I meanout.You. Me. Drinks. Women. Some poor choices we’ll regret in the morning.”

I twisted the cap off my water bottle and took a slow sip. “Pass.”

He groaned. “You’re such a miserable bastard.”

“Yup.”

“Don’t even try to tell me you’re busy.”

“I’m busy.”

“You’re a liar and a recluse.”

“Correct.”

He clasped his hands together, mock pleading. “Just one drink. That’s all I’m asking.”

I squinted at him over the rim of the bottle. “One drink?”

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