God, what happened last night?
What did I do? What did I say to make it so unbearably weird between us?
Grayson has totally changed. He’s not himself around me. We used to be pals. We used to laugh and joke and kick each other under the dinner table. We used to play rugby on the beach and he’d pretend to stumble and fall so I could make a goal. Things used to be easy between Grayson and me.
Now things are...
Ugh.
A total fucking mess. That’s what things are. And I don’t know how to begin to fix it. I don’t know if it’s even fixable.
I’m grateful that I’m not around when Alex gets home.
I’m grateful that I have the restaurant to escape to tonight.
I pull on a loose-fitting knee-length black skirt and a gray lace camisole, and slide my feet into a comfy pair of flats. I get to the restaurant early and do a massive amount of prep work just to keep my mind occupied. I chop vegetables. I clean out the walk-in, I roll silverware into napkins, I refill all the sugar and parmesan cheese containers.
In fact, by the time our regular kitchen guy shows up, there’s nothing for him to do. I’ve done everything for him. So he resigns to smoking a cigarette on the loading dock until we open.
Blake shows up fifteen minutes later and starts setting up the bar. Meanwhile, I struggle to find more ways to stay busy. I’ve now taken to recounting all the money in the cash drawer five times. Even though I get the same amount every time.
“So,” Blake says, sidling up next to me at the hostess stand. “How long have you been in love with your sister’s boyfriend?”
The handful of quarters in my hand splatters to the floor in a cacophony of clanging and chiming.
“W-w-what?” I say, trying to sound irritated. That’s what innocent people sound like when they’re falsely accused, right? Irritated? Or maybe it’s more surprised.
Either way, Blake doesn’t buy it for a second.
“I’m a bartender.” The way he says the word, he might as well have said “psychic.”
I crouch down and start scooping up the dropped coins. “So what?”
“So,” he goes on, “I see unrequited love every day. It’s my bread and butter.”
“I don’t have...unrequited...I’m not...” I’m bumbling so badly I belong in a Woody Allen movie. I finally just resign myself to a sigh. “Is it really that obvious?”
Blake rests his elbows on the hostess stand. “Not to the layman’s eye, no. But to me, yeah.”
“Great.”
“You know,” Blake says, leaning forward, “I’m really good at making people forget about hopeless crushes.”
I roll my eyes as I finish collecting the quarters and stand up, knocking my head on the open cash register drawer.
“Oof!”
Blake is beside me in an instant, helping me up. “Are you okay?”
I rub my head with one hand while stuffing the runaway quarters into the drawer with the other. I close the drawer with a bang, not even bothering to finish my last round of counting.
It’s all there.
And if it’s not...who the fuck cares?
“Maybe you should sit down,” Blake suggests. “I’ll get you some ice.”
“I’m fine.”
“Some wine, then?”
I know I probably shouldn’t. Especially after what happened last night, but what the hell, right? “Yes. Wine. Please.”
Tonight is an improvement over last night. We had five whole tables. But the last one didn’t come in until ten minutes before closing time.
By the time I lock up around midnight, my head is pounding but I’m not sure if it’s the lingering effects of the hangover, which finally started to wear off around seven, or because of the collision with the cash register drawer.
When I slide behind the wheel of my car, I check my phone to see that I have three missed calls. All from Danika.
I tap out a quick text to her.
Me: Sorry. Was working. Everything okay?
I turn the key in the ignition, put the car in reverse, and back out of my parking spot.
Danika: Yup. Just checking on my tragic case.
Then a second later, she adds:
Danika: That would be you, by the way.
I pull to a stop at a red light and tap out a reply.
Me: I figured. Tragic happens to be one of my fortes.
I hit send and quickly follow it up with:
Me: But thanks for checking. Things did not end well last night. But too long to explain in text. And I’m exhausted. Call you tomorrow.
Danika’s final text arrives when I’m pulling into the driveway of the house.
Danika: Your life is a fucking reality show.
I smile and tuck my phone into my purse before getting out of the car and heading toward the kitchen door. I insert my key into the lock, turning it slowly so it doesn’t make a lot of noise. I jump when I see Grayson walking into the kitchen at that exact moment, his face shadowed in the darkness.
He appears startled, too, but it quickly withers away, replaced by a smile.
“Late night,” he drawls in a thick whisper that brings out his subtle Southern accent. It’s not a question. Just a statement of fact.
My breath catches as my eyes land on his bare chest, glowing bluish gray from the refrigerator light, and his black cotton pajama bottoms, riding low enough that I can make out the shallow groove of his hip bones. It’s exactly how he used to walk around the house in high school. Except now it’s worse. Way worse.
And by worse, I mean better.
His skin is the same sumptuous olive color but his chest is so immaculately defined now. His muscles fuller. His shoulders broader and more mountainous, sloping elegantly toward his powerful arms. My gaze dips down his entire body, drinking in every square inch of him. Drowning in his magnificence.
But my wandering gaze screeches to a halt just above the waistband of his pants and I let out a tiny, involuntary gasp.
I spent my entire freshman year memorizing his body. Every time we went to the beach, or he would walk around this very kitchen in only his khaki shorts, I would take mental snapshots and store them away, piecing together the gorgeous memory that would last me all through high school and college.
But that is definitely new.
Just below his belly button is a small patch of dark brown hair that trails down and disappears behind the drawstring of his pants.
The sight of it, like a neon arrow pointing toward heaven, makes my head swim and the room go fuzzy.
It takes me a second to register the fact that I’m staring. Quite blatantly, come to think of it.
I clear my throat and evoke all my power to compel myself to look away.
A playful smile dances on his lips.
Shit.
Do I have to be so fucking obvious? Do I have to stare at his crotch like a horny dog?
“Uh,” I falter for words. Preferably coherent ones. “What are you doing up?”
He holds up his right hand, which is still slightly swollen and tinted red. “It was bothering me,” he says quietly. “I came down to get some ice.”
I immediately jump into action. “Oh, right. I’ll get it.” It comes out in a strained whisper.
As I scurry around the kitchen, grabbing a plastic Ziploc bag from the drawer and a towel from the rack, I can sense his eyes on me. Watching my every move. My hands start to shake as I fumble with the automatic ice dispenser in the refrigerator door.
Only one cube manages to make it into the small bag. The rest tumble to the floor.
I bend down to pick them up and am suddenly aware of Grayson’s presence next to me. Painfully close. The heat from his body radiates off him like a sun scorching my skin.
When I look up, he’s there. Kneeling beside me on the floor. Scooping up ice. His warm maple eyes drift up. Finding me. Imprisoning me in a fierce, unflinching gaze.
I suddenly can’t remember what I’m doing.
Can’t remember why I’m crouched here on the floor.
Can’t remember my own name.
I am drowning in my uncontrollable desire for him. Submerged in the quiet intensity of his eyes.
But I don’t dare look away.
A strand of hair breaks loose from my ponytail and swings into my face. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his hand start to move. Reaching.
Holy shit, he’s going to touch me.
I’m going to feel the blaze of his skin against mine.
And that is something I will certainly not recover from.
I stand up so fast the room spins. I struggle to deposit the ice cubes into the bag where they belong.
He stands up, too, blinking more rapidly than a normal person tends to blink. He dumps the ice he collected in the sink and I thrust the bag at him. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” he says, setting it against his hand, cringing as the cold settles into his skin. “It’s been a long time since I punched someone in the face. I forgot how much it hurt.”
HUH?
Is that what happened last night? Did he get in a fight?
Over me?
No. That’s not possible. No one has ever fought over me.
Alex. Alex gets fought over. She has the face that launched a thousand punches, or whatever.
I’m just...
I’m not worth fighting over.
He must read the confusion on his face. “You don’t remember that part, do you?”
I shake my head.
“How much do you remember?”
“I...” I start to say.
But I can’t do this. I can’t talk about this. Not here. Not while he’s dressed like that. Or shall I say, not dressed like that. I was kind of hoping we could just move on like it never happened and forget about it. But it’s pretty obvious he wants to hash it out. Right here. Right now.
So I take a deep breath and, battling to keep my voice steady, say, “Look, you were right. I’m really embarrassed about what happened last night and I kind of want to just forget about it and move on. I realize this may not be the mature thing to do but to be honest, at this point, I’m not sure I can handle the mature thing.”
His eyebrows furrow as he takes in what I just said. Or more like just rambled.
“You’re embarrassed,” he verifies, “because you got drunk and called me to come pick you up?”
“Because it seems like every time you’re around I somehow always need to be rescued!” My soft, tentative whispers have turned into throaty, breathy cries. “Because I’m like some perpetual damsel in distress who always needs saving.”
When I finish, he just stares at me, his gaze intense and searching. Then a reticent smile makes its way to his lips.
“I like saving you,” he admits quietly.
Of all the things I was expecting him to say in response to my tirade, this was certainly not one of them.
“What?”
He takes another step toward me. His proximity is intoxicating. Stronger proof than any alcohol. More debilitating than any drug.
“I said,” he replies, his voice deliberate. Determined. “I like saving you.”
My head gives an involuntary, barely perceptible shake. “Why? So you can see what a mess I am and feel better about yourself? So you can sleep soundly at night knowing that you picked the right sister?”
In one fluid motion, he’s closed the gap between us. I don’t know how it happens. I don’t even have time to process it. But somehow, the next thing I know, his mouth is on me. His lips are parting mine. His hands are capturing my face.
His body descends, pressing my back against the kitchen counter.
The ice bag drops to the floor and both of his hands slip under my tank top, clutching the sides of my waist. His chilled fingers send delicious shivers up my body.
I open my mouth to him, inviting him in, moaning softly against his tongue as it pushes deeper into me. The kiss consumes me. Steals my sanity. My sense of direction. I don’t even feel the floor vanish from beneath my feet as his fingertips grip my waist and lift me up.
My legs instinctively wrap around his torso and then we’re spinning. Moving. Searching for a place to land. My back slams hard against the refrigerator door, sending the various magnets holding up wedding invitations and baby announcements skittering across the floor.
He continues to ravish me, his tongue venturing deeper, his groan lost in the hollowness of my mouth. I open my legs wider, allowing him closer access. His broad hips fill the tiny space like a vacuum, pushing against me with a hunger and fierceness that I never knew Grayson Walker was capable of.
The Grayson I knew has always been gentle. Sweet. Tender.
This Grayson is someone else.
Someone ravenous. Fervent. Wild.
And—if the rock-hard bulge that’s formed beneath his pajama pants is any indication—someone ready as well.
It only makes my desperate yearning to feel him inside me—to feel him everywhere—even stronger.
His mouth dips to my neck, zeroing right into my most sensitive spot, as though he’s known about it all along. As though his lips were built to fit there. My body shudders in response, warm wetness pooling between my legs.
Holy shit, that’s incredible.
My mind wants to slow down, take time to think about what is happening. Grayson Walker is kissing me.
And not just kissing me.
Kissing the fuck out of me.
But my body won’t allow for even a moment of reflection. The sensation is too consuming. The hot pressure of his probing tongue too exquisite. I can feel his breath coming hot and heavy against my burning skin and it’s the most miraculous thing I’ve ever felt.
His large, eager hands grip my waist tighter, and in an instant we’re moving again. I don’t know where’s taking me. You couldn’t pay me to care. All I know is a moment later I feel icy cold marble stinging the exposed skin of my lower back. He lays me down across the kitchen island, my legs still gripped tightly around his waist.
His thick, confident fingers slide further up my tank top, wrapping around my ribcage, like he’s going to squeeze the air out of me.
But if breathlessness is his goal here, he’s too late.
I’m already a crazed, panting mess.
In one swift, feverish motion, my tank top is pulled over my head, the cool surface of the countertop shooting glorious tingles down my back.
For a long, lustful moment, he just stands there, hovering above me, his eyes languorously grazing my body, caressing my skin. He reaches out and places his palm down flat against my chest, his fingertips spread around the contours of my neck. Then slowly—voraciously—he claws his outstretched hand down the length of my torso, his damp skin sticking to mine, his fingertips curling slightly as they drag across the curve of my breasts.
“Oh God, Lia.”
His voice quivers as his wild eyes devour me. As his hand pushes urgently against my stomach.
The sound of my name—urgent and sensual and raspy—on his mouth is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard in my life.
Then, as though unable to wait any longer, he dives down, his searing lips landing on my stomach. I let out a quiet gasp, my back arching up. He groans greedily into my skin, his hands slipping under my bowed back to compel me closer.
I’ve never felt such hunger—such irresistible need. My body, my mouth, my thighs all ache for him simultaneously. Like one giant burning river of desire flowing through my veins.
His hands slip beneath my skirt, grasping my hips and yanking me hard against him. I cry out softly, biting down on my lip to control the sound. He kisses a trail of shivers across the tops of my breasts, before gripping the fabric of my pink lace bra between his teeth and pulling it down to expose my breast. His mouth lunges hungrily for my nipple. I bite down harder on my lip to keep the whimper locked inside me as the warm, wet texture of his tongue turns the room into an indecipherable blur.
I bury my fingers in his hair, clenching desperately against the ecstasy. Doing whatever I can to keep from waking up this entire house with a wail of beautiful release that’s been pent up in me for eight fucking years.
His tongue flutters against my rigid nipple, swirling, teasing, tempting.
My legs spread wider around him in response, my hips bucking wildly against his abdomen. I can feel the hardness swelling even larger under his pajamas, fighting its way to me.
Grayson moans against me, his hot breath tickling my skin.
Then his lips find mine again, his mouth wide and ravenous, muffling the sound of my passion. His arms are wrapped tight around my back, his bare chest crushed against mine.
I feel myself drowning in his kiss, his touch, his everything. The world around me closes down. Checks out. We are no longer in this house. We are somewhere else. Somewhere beyond reality. Beyond sense.
Which is probably why neither of us sees the light flickering on in the stairwell just outside the kitchen. We’re both too consumed by whatever is happening right now.
But we both hear the voice that floats ominously from the top of the stairs.
“Grayson? Are you down there?”
And we both recognize it as Alex’s.
Grayson flies off me, adjusting his pajama pants which have slipped dangerously low around his waist as a result of me grinding feverishly against him. I sit up fast, pulling my bra back over my breast. Grayson’s hands encircle my waist as he helps me down from the kitchen island. I immediately start scouring the floor for my tank top. Grayson finds it first and kicks it in my direction. I run to the pantry, sliding the door shut behind me.
Peering through the slats, I see Grayson fumbling to get the bag of ice back onto his hand. The bulge between his legs is still pushing against the fabric of his pants. He looks down, panic registering on his face, and then makes a hasty decision, shoving the bag of ice against his crotch in an attempt to solve the problem.
I would laugh if I wasn’t so fucking terrified.
If I couldn’t hear my own heart pounding in my ears, threatening to jump out of my ribcage.
Alex shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “What are you doing down here?”
Grayson raises his ice pack in the air, as though offering physical proof of his innocence, and I see that his trick worked. His massive pajama tent is gone.
“Just getting some ice,” he explains. “For my hand. It was hurting.”
She lets out a soft groan. “Well, you don’t have to ice it in here. Come back to bed.”
He casts a flickering glance my way before finally standing and following Alex out of the kitchen.
I sit in the darkness of the pantry, surrounded by the smells of flour and baking powder. My senses must be unusually heightened because I can’t remember these bland, uninspiring scents ever being this strong. Or this delectable.
But I suppose that’s what kissing Grayson Walker does.
It turns even the most bland, basic ingredients into rare, exotic spices.
I know I should go upstairs. I should lie down in my bed, let my mind take over and the guilt settle in as I try to process everything that just happened. Try to figure out what is waiting for me on the other side of this night when I’m forced to stumble through the emotional debris left behind from our recklessness.
I should be bracing myself for the aftermath.
But I just can’t do it.
I’m not ready for another hangover. I’m not ready to face up to what is sure to be yet another mistake on my long list of judgment errors.
Which is why I stay in the darkened pantry.
Which is why I allow my hand to drift under the hem of my skirt, slip past the edge of my panties, keeping the looming regret at bay with strong, purposeful strokes.
I cling onto the beautiful denial for five more blissful minutes.
Long enough to finish what Grayson Walker so adeptly began.