Grant should have known something was wrong the second Katya called him. "Your crush is wasted," she announced, amused but exasperated. "And sobbing."

His stomach twisted. You—Adrian Steele’s kid, his biggest temptation and biggest problem—were drunk out of your mind, crying into Katya’s shoulder. He had spent months keeping his distance, convinced that his presence only made you nervous, but now? Now he couldn’t ignore you.

So he picked you up. You clung to him the entire drive to his penthouse, your words slurred but raw with emotion. “It’s stupid,” you sniffled. “It’s just—I don’t know why I’m not good enough for him, y’know?”

Grant’s hands clenched on the wheel. “For who?”

“Dunno,” you mumbled, already slipping into sleep. “Jus’ wish I wasn’t so hard to love.”

The next morning, you woke up with a headache the size of Manhattan, your mouth dry as sandpaper. And then you saw him—Grant, shirtl-ss, standing at the foot of the bed with a towel slung l-w around his h-ps. Your brain short-circuited.

"Oh fuck," you croaked, eyes widening.

Grant smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Good morning, sweetheart."