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Levi looks rough after a couple of weeks without me. Then again, he always looks a little rough.

His dark hair has grown longer, brushing the back of his collar in messy, unstyled waves that somehow soften the hard edges of his face without actually dulling them. A few days’ worth of stubble shadows his jaw, and that ridiculous little gold hoop still dangles from his ear.

Annoyingly, women lose their minds over it.

Levi doesn’t even try—that’s the worst part. He’s clueless with women, borderline indifferent, yet they still flock to him. I’ll be in the middle of a conversation, putting in real effort, and somehow it always circles back to “So…what about your friend?” like I’m just the warm-up act.

I’m better looking. That’s not ego. That’s fact.

Levi just stands there, stoic and silent. No charm. He barely remembers their names. Yet they still throw themselves at him like he’s the last man on earth.

I don’t get it.

I drag my attention back to Jamie’s messages, jaw tightening as I read through them again.

It takes a lot to get under my skin. Words are usually just noise. In my world, they don’t mean shit unless someone’s willing to back them up with action.

But these… I don’t like these at all. Something dark and ugly twists in my chest. I stare at the screen a second longer than I should, then shove the phone back into my pocket.

“Why are you wearing that suit?” Levi asks.

“I always wear a suit.”

“That’s your nice suit.”

“Might need to get into the Crestwood later.”

Levi snorts. “Don’t tell me you’ve run out of women your own age and you’re moving on to their grandmas now.”

I shake my head, not bothering to explain.

He drags a hand down his face. “What’s the story with this guy anyway? Why does he want to mutilate this chick?”

I shrug. “She was on TV. He’s a nutjob.”

“What was she on?”

“Like you’d know.” He doesn’t watch TV. Apart from whatever sports or reruns happen to be playing in whatever bar we’re sitting in.

I used to be the same. Then I moved into the guest house. Now I’ve seen every episode of The One. I keep telling myself it’s research. Part of the job.

That’s complete bullshit.

I skip straight to Grace’s scenes. Rewatch them more than I’ll ever admit out loud.

She’s different on camera. Stiff. Too polished. Like she’s performing some version of herself. I hate it.

Still can’t stop watching.

I skip the kissing scenes, though. Those make my blood boil. It’s obvious neither of them feels a damn thing—every kiss looks fake as hell. But the sight of another guy touching her still makes me want to put my fist through the screen.

I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.

A few years ago, I laughed my ass off when Dean Carter lost his mind over a woman. The guy had us scaring off her dates, running surveillance on her. Then he went and tattooed her name on his neck.

I called him pathetic.

Now?