Hostile(23)

“Nope. Not until I find out why you gave up drawing so easily. You say your dad didn’t make you, but Ms. Holler acted like you loved it. And I’ve seen you drawing with the kids at the mission. You love it. So why quit?”

His smile dims, and okay, I hate that. “I already told you. My dad didn’t think it was a good enough elective, and I agreed.”

“So, you’re going to grow up to be just like daddy?” I tease, but I know there’s a bite in my tone. There always is.

He flinches and gives a quick shrug. “Like my grandfather actually.”

“What?” I didn’t see that coming, for whatever reason.

His expression is solemn and reminiscent as his eyes sadden. “My dad’s father. He was an incredible human. Didn’t come from very much. A family of eight with too many mouths to feed and not nearly enough money. But he worked really hard and got a scholarship to college. Started his own firm and made a shit ton of money.”

So, he comes from money, but the ground-up kind, earned only a couple of generations ago.

“Anyway, he was good to me. My parents . . .” He lets out a little self-deprecating laugh and sighs. “They couldn’t be bothered with me, so I spent a lot of time with him. He was fun.”

“I’m glad you had him.” I sincerely mean that.

“Me too.” He smiles sadly.

“I’m guessing something happened to him since we’re talking in the past tense.”

He nods. “Yeah. He died a few years ago. He’d had a stroke a couple of years before and wasn’t really the same after that. It was hard seeing such a strong man knocked down.”

Damn it. There’s more of that decent side I’m seeing. He really makes it hard not to like him. “So, you want to be like your grandfather?”

“Yeah. I want to do good things with the money the firm makes. Donate a percentage of the profits to charity and stuff. Things my dad cut when he took over. It would kill my grandfather all over again to know the shit my dad’s done to his business.”

He’s really, really good. Damn.

“Maybe your grandfather would like that you like to draw though?” I say it with a questioning lilt to my tone, and he smiles, settling his side into the back of the couch.

“He would. He encouraged everything I liked to do.” His smile has only grown, and I know his grandfather meant a lot to him.

“Then why quit?” Why am I pushing this so much? Maybe I need us to have at least that in common. Or maybe it just bugs me he’s letting his father control him.

He shrugs. “If I want to work at my father’s firm and eventually take over, I have to do things his way.”

I study him for a moment, seeing the bitterness in his eyes, and it all clicks. He wants to take over someday and make his grandfather proud, but to do that, he has to tow the line for a while. “Fuck.”

He barks out a laugh. “Yeah.”

“Is it worth it?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I want to make my grandpa proud. And if it means giving up drawing and swimming, maybe that’s okay.”

“Swimming?” I cock an eyebrow, and he looks sheepish—shy and vulnerable. He nods slowly.

“Yeah. I was on the swim team in junior high and my freshmen year.”

“I’d think swimming would be fine with your father. Isn’t that closer to the Ivy league shit?”

He chuckles and shakes his head in an adorable way I find endearing, which what the fuck? When have I ever felt that way? “Basketball is way more popular here. And you know . . . must be popular to get ahead in life.”

The bitterness in his tone is something I 100 percent understand. “Right.”

It makes me sad for him. All his joy being stripped away. He offers me a small, sad smile. “I still swim though. There’s something about it that’s addicting. So, I couldn’t let it go completely.”

The passion I see in his eyes as he thinks about it reminds me we may have a hell of a lot more in common than I realized. “Yeah. When you’re under water, it’s like the whole world disappears. If only for a moment.”

He cocks his head to the side, seeming surprised. “You like to swim?”

“I love it.”

“Really?” He’s almost comically surprised now, but then his eyes skim my body in a way that lights me on fire. “I guess that makes sense.”

“What’s that mean?”

His eyes land on mine again, and he’s wearing that devilish look. “You’re fit as fuck, but you don’t play any sports.”

I roll my eyes because I wouldn’t describe myself as “fit as fuck.” I’ve always been skinny, especially when I was in foster care and didn’t know where my next meal was coming from. I’ve gained a little muscle now that I’ve been fed—sometimes forcibly so by my awesome mom, Blair—but Grayson easily has thirty pounds of rock-hard, sculpted muscle on me.

And now, my mind is consumed with thoughts about that muscular body on mine, and I can’t get words to form.

I shrug. “I swim as often as I can, but you know . . . fucking winter. I haven’t been able to do it for a while.”

He grins again. “You should come over to my house.”

I study his cocky grin and then scoff with half a laugh added in. “You have an indoor pool, don’t you, you spoiled motherfucker?”