CHAPTER FOUR

Caden's Pov

Irritation stabbed at me like a sharp knife.

Why was this asshole my bodyguard? He's so rude. Stupid American. He doesn't even deserve his looks. Not his stupid sculpted muscles or his curly black hair or his gunmetal-gray eyes. He's very… ugly on the inside.

Why did grandpa have to hire him?

I sigh for the umpteenth time that evening and stare at my empty glass.

“Are you sure he's not a robot?” Gatsby gave me a light nudge in the shoulder.

I shrugged. “How do I know? Go ask him yourself.”

Gatsby stared at Asher who was busy scanning the living room of my, fireworks emoji, new home.

She turned to me and shook her head. “Hard pass. He looks like he'll kill me.”

When we arrived at the penthouse an hour ago, I'd called Gatsby over but Asher gave me a hard NO, saying stuff about security measures and knowing your enemy bullcrap. I didn't listen to him. I called her right over and here we are.

Gatsby tried to lighten the mood but it didn't work out.

“So…” she began. “Why don't we get to know each other?”

“There's no need for that. I'm sure Gabriel has told you all about me.” He said in a brisk tone.

Now that I think about it. He was the exact opposite of what Gabriel described. Experienced? Well, yeah. Those muscles could pack a punch but top-notch recommendations? This bloke lacks manners and is basically an animal. Sought-after professional my ass.

Gatsby lounged around for an extra hour before she left. I'd begged her to take me with her but she'd scurried off. Traitor.

A yawn escaped me and I covered my mouth with my good hand. I must be exhausted.

“Going to bed early?” Asher asked like the noob he was.

“What's that to you?” I rolled my eyes and turned towards the stairs.

I expected a retort but didn't get one. Nice, that'll teach him to shut up.

I crashed on the floor the second I entered my room, too tired to even move. Maybe, I'll just sleep on the floor.

The cold, tile floor was replaced with a familiar warmth I never thought I'd feel ever again.

Leather and sandalwood filled my nostrils as I floated, I believe, towards my bed. I didn't need to open my eyes to know that it's HIM — the man from 5 years ago.

I knew this was obviously a dream. I always see him in my dreams, watching me, touching my hair and my hand, and sometimes, kissing me. I never asked him his name after we hooked up but my therapist told me to ask him whenever I saw him in my dreams and so I did.

“What is… your name?” My words came out slurred.

When he didn't reply, I tried to open my eyes but he placed his hand over them.

“Go to sleep, amore.” He said in his lovely deep voice.

That's right. He also called me “amore” 5 years ago and told me he loved me. It's actually him.

“Don't go, Grey.” I mumbled and snuggled into his arms. I never got to know his name so I called him grey because of his eyes.

I remember his touch, his kisses, the way he pounded into me like a madman, but I didn't remember his name.

I never do.

The following day, I woke up to emptiness.

The side next to me was cold, reminding me everything I felt last night would always be a dream. Fate, you fucking bitch.

I kicked off the bedcovers when I suddenly realized something. How the hell did I end up in my bed? I remember passing out on the floor.

I'd barely gotten my answer when the door suddenly opened and the grumpy American walked in.

“Don't you know how to knock or did your parents not teach you any manners?” I chucked a pillow at him, one he was quick to catch.

“My parents are dead,” he said dryly. “Come downstairs for breakfast.”

That stopped me. “You cooked?”

“No. I'm not your chef. Get your ass out of that bed and come make your own breakfast. Your physiotherapist will be soon.” He scoffed and turned to the door, walking the way he came.

I clenched my knuckles so hard my fingernails cut into my palm.

I'm going to murder this asshole.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, I went downstairs to the kitchen, only to be greeted by the smell of bacon and eggs.

He made breakfast after all.

“Morning, Caden.” Gatsby beamed at me.

Of course, she made breakfast. The asshole lounged at the head of the dinner table with a cigar in his hand and a wine in the other.

“Cigar and alcoholic wine in the morning? I see you're hungry for death.” I glared at him as I took my seat.

He blew smoke in my direction and I coughed.

“Please, smoke somewhere else. Caden hates the smell of smoke.” Gatsby said in a semi-polite tone.

Asher doesn't move from his spot and only keeps smoking. He looked at me, mischief dancing into his stupidly attractive eyes. Does he know something I don't?

Suddenly, memories of the past flashed through my head — The grey-eyed man smoking a cigar and passing it to me while we drank more wine, smoked more weed and fucked.

Jesus. I hope my cheeks aren't red.

I cleared my throat. “Don't worry, Gatsby. I'll just have breakfast in my room.”

“I'll let you know when the physiotherapist comes.” She said, patting me lightly on the shoulder.

Thank God she read the air. There was clearly no point addressing the mountain-size elephant in the room.

I was used to eating breakfast alone so this shouldn't be too hard. But when I tried to eat, I couldn't.

Why did Asher stare at me like that? Does he actually know something about me that I don't? Or… oh no. Did he hear me call Grey in my sleep? God, that must've been so embarrassing. Of course, he'd heard me otherwise he wouldn't have been staring at me like that.

I pushed that thought to the back of my mind and started eating breakfast.

By the time I was done, I took the tray and reached for the door.

My stomach flipped when I saw who was standing on the threshold.

“The doctor's here.” He said.

Those three words were my very undoing.

I stared at his eyes, grey, almost dark like two little storms waiting to break loose.

Where the hell have I seen those eyes and why can't I remember?