Chapter 2

Blair POV:

I went down to the underground parking garage. My phone buzzed—the "Lunch Trio" group chat Kloe had created three months ago.

Grayson: "Blair, what is wrong with you lately? Demanding clothes back in public? Kloe was freezing and you made her feel terrible."

He didn't mention our relationship. His only concern was Kloe's comfort and his carefully curated image.

I replied: "I was just taking back what belongs to me."

Kloe immediately flooded the chat: "Blair, please don't be mad at Gray! It's all my fault! I had no idea that scarf meant so much to you. I'll wash it tonight and put it on your desk first thing tomorrow morning! Gray is just like a big brother to me!"

Big brother. Last Friday at midnight, this "big brother" spent three hours massaging her ankle on our couch because she'd twisted it during pilates.

I ignored her and sent Grayson a separate message: "Enjoy your ride."

The group chat went dead.

When the elevator reached the parking garage, cheers erupted from the adjacent corridor. A dozen people from Grayson's project team and Kloe's design group were gathered at the exit. Marcus spotted me immediately: "Blair! Dave's SUV has a seat saved for you! We're heading to the waterfront seafood restaurant for Kloe's celebration!"

"I have plans tonight." I pulled my arm free from his grip.

"Come on, Blair!" Kloe stood at the front of the group, pressed close to Grayson, still clutching the edge of that scarf, her voice pitiful. "If you don't come, I'll think you're still mad at me. Please, just for my celebration dinner, do me this favor?"

Grayson stood beside her, hands in his pockets, his eyes shooting me a cold warning—go ahead, refuse in front of twenty-some people, earn yourself a petty reputation.

"Get in the car," he said flatly. "Don't hold everyone up."

I scanned the expectant faces. In their eyes, I was the stiff, serious marketing manager; Kloe was the delicate little darling who deserved to be pampered.

"Fine," I said calmly. "Let's go."

Twenty minutes later, we were at an upscale seafood restaurant on the Seattle pier. Grayson sat across from me, Kloe on his right, their shoulders brushing every time she reached for her water glass.

Dave raised his beer mug and leaned forward. "Grayson, when are you going to come clean with us? What exactly are you two?"

The table went quiet. A few people clinked their forks against their glasses.

I stared straight at Grayson.

He smiled slightly, picked up his cider, and took a sip. "Kloe and I have great synergy at work. She's a very special colleague to me."

"Special colleague?" Dave laughed. "Come on, man! Last Sunday you drove halfway across the city at six in the morning to jump-start her Mini! Who does that for a 'special colleague' in the pouring rain?"

I stared at Grayson. Last Sunday morning, the kitchen faucet was leaking. I was under the sink with a wrench, called him, and he said "I'm busy, call the property manager." So that's what he was busy with—driving halfway across the city to jump-start Kloe's car.

Kloe ducked her head, cheeks flushing crimson. She sneaked a glance at me, let her gaze linger for a beat, then leaned into Grayson's arm. "Dave, stop teasing us. Gray is going to get embarrassed."

"I'm not embarrassed," Grayson chuckled, patting her shoulder. "Everyone, go easy on Kloe. She's shy."

The table erupted in knowing laughter. Dave opened his mouth to say more, but the colleague next to him pulled him back, and he shut it with a grin.

I reached under the table and texted Grayson: "Tell them you have a girlfriend."

Across the table, his phone screen lit up. He glanced at the notification banner, his jaw tightening. He didn't open it. He turned the phone face down on the table, picked up the crab crackers, cracked a leg, and placed the tender white meat gently onto Kloe's appetizer plate.

"Eat. You barely had anything at lunch."

My phone vibrated in my palm.

Grayson: "Stop creating drama in public. If I tell them now, everyone will think I was deliberately hiding you and lying to them. I'll explain when the time is right. Can you not act like a crazy person?"

Crazy.

Three years. I split the mortgage with him, ironed his presentation shirts every Sunday, sat on a hard plastic chair in the ER for fourteen hours when he tore his ACL during a soccer match, fed him hot soup one plastic spoonful at a time.

Kloe wasn't about to let the opportunity pass. She giggled, her fingers trailing lightly along Grayson's forearm, and called across the table, "Blair, you're so quiet tonight! Aren't you going to congratulate Gray and me on finishing the Q3 roadmap?"

The table went silent again. Every eye turned to me.

Grayson calmly poured himself more tea, his hand steady as a rock, confident that I would swallow my humiliation like I always did.

I picked up my water glass, took a sip, and set it down on the table with a sharp click.

"Congratulations on finishing the roadmap." My voice was clear and strong, cutting through the restaurant jazz.

Then I leaned forward, my eyes boring straight into Grayson's.

"By the way, Grayson," I raised my voice so the entire table of twenty-some people could hear, "are you single?"

The long table went dead silent.