Page 68 of Graves

Aran stares at the black coffee in his cup. When he frowns, I catch a glimpse of the heavy sadness surrounding him and the weight on his shoulders.

“A little normalcy would probably do you good,” I say gently. “You can’t hide forever. You’re a free man again.”

Once again, I have no idea where these words came from.

Aran Graves does something to me, and I don’t know what it is.

Fuck, yes! I don’t want to be seen with him! But it’s worse watching him punish himself for something I admittedly don’t fully understand.

I’m changing my opinion of him.

How the hell did he manage that?

“I’m not free.” His voice is thin, barely a whisper.

“Yes, you are,” I insist. “You just have to allow it. In here.” I tap my own head.

Who the hell am I?

Giving the guy advice I don’t even follow myself.

I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

Aran bites his bottom lip and stares hard at the cup in his hand. The shadows under his eyes are dark and his eyes glassy. Compared to last night when he fucked me in this very kitchen, he seems like a different person.

“It’s a beautiful day. You really don’t want to go out?”

He lifts his gaze toward me with those sapphire-blue eyes. “I do, but I…”

“We’ll go out the back and the paparazzi won’t recognize you,” I assure him—after all, it’s in my interest too.

An hour later, we leave the apartment together. Aran looks more serious than ever, and I have a hard time suppressing my grin.

Since he usually wears all black, I lent him one of my beige jackets, which he wears open, covering his noticeable arm tattoos despite the pleasant 73 °F. He’s also tamed his hair with a black-and-yellow Boston Bruins cap and is wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses.

“Okay,” I say as we leave the courtyard, this time through the south side instead of Muvi’s. “We’re picking up ten dogs. They all live around here. Afterward, we can go to Pier 45. Totally chill.”

Aran grumbles and pulls the cap lower over his face.

While I ring the owners’ doorbells and collect the dogs, he waits on the street with Pixie and the growing pack.

It’s interesting to watch him slowly loosen up and relax. He refuses to walk a few of the dogs but is willing to take Pixie. That’s good because she’s by far the smallest and can’t run in the middle of the pack. I’m surprised how well-behaved she is as she walks beside Aran on the leash and doesn’t even try to join the others.

“Looks like two have become friends,” I tease Aran, nodding meaningfully at Pixie.

“She just wouldn’t leave me alone,” he says dryly.

I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t actually hate dogs, do you?”

“No.”

That’s all. The man really is a tough nut.

“Sorry if I’m asking, but do you learn that in prison? To say as little as possible?”

“No,” he answers with a nostalgic tone. “Dealing with the press.”

“I’m not the press,” I say, stopping the pack at a red light. “I don’t want anything to do with them.”