Page 11 of Gunnar

The doorbell rings at exactly ten o’clock—not 9:59 a.m., not 10:01 a.m.—the chime cutting through the silence.

“That’s probably him,” Sarah chirps as she steps into the hall.

Probably…

As if we’re expecting multiple heavily vetted security contractors this morning.

I smooth my palms down my dark-wash jeans and follow her into the foyer. The moment I open the door, I immediately understand the punctuality. Everything about him feels controlled and intentional in a way that causes my breath to catch.

The man before me is tall. Very tall. He’s broad-shouldered and imposing, in a black polo shirt and matching cargo pants. Short dark hair, threaded with gray, has been styled with the same efficiency that seems to cover the rest of him. His strong jaw and sharp cheekbones give him the kind of face that looks permanently mildly annoyed by the mere existence of other people.

That hard expression remains neutral as he looks at me. More correctly, assesses me, completely unimpressed. For some reason, that actually annoys me.

“Miss Martin.” His voice is deeper than I expected, rougher, too. The gravelly scratch to it does something mildly inappropriate to my pulse.

“Mr. Gunnar?”

The corner of his mouth ticks upward for a second before snapping back into his stoic mask. “Gunnar is my first name.”

Right. Excellent start.

I offer my hand. “Devyn.”

His skin is warm and slightly calloused when he takes mine. Though the handshake is firm and professional, his contact is like an electric tingle up my arm. He glances beyond me into the house, before his eyes return to mine, steady and completely unreadable. “I’d like to start with a walk-through.”

No small talk. No awkward celebrity acknowledgment of I’m a huge fan or my wife loves your work. He’s straight to business. While the lack of pretense is actually a little refreshing, unable to help myself, I snark, “Good morning to you, too.”

His eyes flicker for a second before he steps inside and immediately starts appraising my home. I close the door behind him, the latch loud in the silence.

“Most people compliment the architecture first,” I mutter playfully, my voice carrying that particular tone I get when I’m anxious.

“The architecture is part of the problem.”

I blink, the words cutting through my attempt at normalcy. “The problem?”

He points toward the massive windows that overlook the ocean, the ones I fell in love with when I bought my home. The ones that make the space feel open and infinite. “Those.”

My eyes flit between the glass and him a few times as I try to see them through his point of view. “The windows are the problem.” I stare at the panes of glass. Then at him. Then back at the view beyond the glass, trying to see the issue through his eyes and failing. “The windows are a problem. They’re a vulnerability.”

Thirty seconds in my home and he has managed to insult the feature I love most about it. He continues walking, his boots silent against the hardwood floor as he wanders through the main living area. I trail after him, mostly because I feel obligated to supervise his invasion into my privacy. And partly because I want to know what else he’s going to critique.

“Too many access points.”

I stare at his back, his wide shoulders filling out the form-fitting polo shirt stretched around them. “Good morning, Devyn. Congratulations on your Oscar. What a lovely home. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

He glances over his shoulder, and for a second, something almost like humor flits across his expression. “You won an Oscar?” I stop, frozen in shock. I know this isn’t everyone’s world, but don’t think there’s a media that hasn’t covered the win. He shrugs, the movement elegant and infuriating. “I don’t really watch movies.”

I don’t know why his confession offends me, but it absolutely does. A hot spike of irritation that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the fact that I’ve spent my entire adult life creating art that matters to me, that I’ve poured my soul into performances that earned me the highest honor in my industry, and this man can’t be bothered to sit through a two-hour film. “You. Don’t. Watch. Movies,” I repeat, flatly.

“No.”

“But you work with celebrity clients.”

“Unfortunately.”

I gasp, my hand flying to my chest in theatrical outrage. The audacity. The absolute, unvarnished, Costco-sized audacity. This man doesn’t even look sorry. He keeps walking, his attention having already moved onto the next vulnerability and flaw in my sanctuary. I follow, mostly out of outrage now, the irritation carrying me forward when good sense might suggest I let him do his job in peace.

He reaches the kitchen, and his expression changes subtly, a professional focus settling into place like a mask dropping over his features. “Where were they?”