Starting from Zero (Starting from 1)

I swallowed hard against the ugly impotent feeling roiling in my gut. I’d spent a few hours with this man sharing things I rarely did because he felt like a safe harbor on a night when I needed to connect to someone who didn’t know me. Someone who wouldn’t look at my past or present and wonder when the fuck I’d grow up. For a few hours, we’d been friends and then lovers. I didn’t believe in forever. I’d had my ass kicked by real life too many times to get any flowery notions about “happily ever afters.” But I’d hoped to keep those few hours with him sacred. I didn’t want to know him and be forced to acknowledge he wasn’t just out of my league…he was in another galaxy.

I cleared my throat and inclined my head toward the house. “Look, here’s what went down. I got an email from a Charles Robertson saying he needed someone to do some clerical work. I showed up for an interview, and here I am. I don’t know if there really is a job, but—”

“There is,” he intercepted with a lopsided smile. “Charlie agreed to take it on, but he’s hard to pin down, and it looks like he came up with another idea.”

“And he just happened to call me?”

“I didn’t ask him to contact you, but I’m not sorry he did. It’s good to see you. I’ve thought about you a lot. I was hoping you’d call.”

“I wanted to, but I didn’t know what to say,” I admitted awkwardly. I pursed my lips and willed myself not to tell him I’d been staring at his number like a lovesick weirdo for weeks. God, I felt like an idiot. I had to get outta here. I hiked my thumb toward the house and stepped backward. “You know, this probably isn’t a good idea. I should go.”

“Don’t you want to see my records?”

That stopped me. He sounded so…unsure. And kind of nerdy. I tilted my head and I wondered if I was being punked or if “see my records” was code for something else. The hint of vulnerability I’d heard was gone in an instant, replaced by the careless disinterest I expected from a successful music guru.

I met his nonchalant gaze and shrugged. “Why not?”

Gray nodded curtly and motioned for me to follow him. He led the way across the pool deck to the main house via the wide glass door I’d come through with Charlie. He paused to make sure I closed it behind me before turning down the wide corridor and opening the first door on the left to what looked like a bedroom-slash-gaming room. There was a queen-sized bed in the corner but the giant television, a comfy-looking sofa, and a coffee table littered with controllers and discarded games indicated that the real action happened in front of the flat-screen.

“I’m gonna grab a shirt,” he said, heading to the walk-in closet.

“Okay.”

I perused the games while I waited. Grand Theft Auto, Fortnite, Call of Duty. I picked up Dragon Ball FighterZ and read the back of the box. Nice collection.

“Do you play?”

I glanced up with a wry grin and started to give a smartass reply about my videogame expertise, but I immediately forgot whatever I was going to say. Fuck, he was hot. His red plaid flannel shirt stretched enticingly as he slipped it over his shoulders. I wanted to laugh at his wardrobe choices. He should have looked like a test pattern gone wrong with the long-sleeved plaid, checked shoes, and printed swim trunks…but somehow the combo worked on him.

Gray bent his head briefly to deal with the buttons before giving me an expectant look to let me know he was waiting on a reply. I averted my gaze from the sexy trail of fur leading south from his bellybutton and swiped the back of my hand across my mouth, hoping I caught myself before I drooled.

“Yeah. I’m in the middle of Assassin’s Creed Odyssey right now with my roommate. He’s obsessed and he doesn’t seem to care that I kick his ass every night,” I said with a laugh before gesturing toward the bed and closet. “Is this a guest room or your room or…what?”

“It’s supposed to be a guest room, but it’s mostly a place to hang out. My studio is down the hall, and the library is next door. I keep a few things in the closet, so I don’t have to traipse from one end of the house to the other to look for a shirt or a clean pair of underwear. When I get deep into a project, I sleep here or in the pool house. It’s easier to be close to the music.”

“The music?” I asked, casting a curious gaze around the space. It was a teenage boy’s dream room. The only things missing were a stocked mini fridge and obligatory pics of sports idols and rock gods.