The crickets sing through the night air as I watch Grayson from where I stand midway down the street.
I couldn’t resist. I tried. I reminded myself it’s just sex, it’s just lust, it’s nothing serious. Yet, here I am after the debacle of yesterday and the canceling of our planned date via text.
He’s sitting on the porch swing, holding a beer in one hand and music playing softly somewhere near him. He’s deep in thought—that much I can tell, but I can only imagine over what.
There’s a sadness to him, an air of a man in conflict, which twists my insides in ways that tell me I care about him when I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.
This is why I’ve never gotten involved with someone who had kids. Too much baggage. Too much drama. Too much stress, when a relationship is hard enough as it is.
As much as I tell myself that I should turn around and quietly walk the miles back to my house, I move forward, down the sidewalk and up his front walk. I know he knows I’m there—I can tell by the slight pause of the beer to his lips before continuing—but he doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t turn my way.
I take a seat in the swing beside him, the seat creaking under the added weight, and just sit there for a bit, listening to the night around us and a song by Florida Georgia Line on the radio.
“Where’s Luke?” I ask.
“Asleep.”
“Oh.” I take a deep breath, suddenly nervous to be out here with him. I know we need to address some issues, and that if we don’t, there is really no need for me to be here. “Your mom came to see me today.”
“I know.” He takes a sip of his beer, still not looking at me.
“She told me she was upset that you got mad at her.”
“The two of you seem to be getting cozy the last few days.”
“Don’t be a jerk, Grayson.”
“It seems to me it’s the only thing I’m good at these days.” He sighs and shoves up out of the swing, leaving me to rock on it by myself as he moves to the other side of the patio. “Fucking Christ. Should I presume that makes two of you?”
“Two of us?” What in the hell is he talking about?
“Mad at me.” When he turns to face me, he looks like a little boy who’d just been scolded, unsure whether he’s in trouble or not.
“I’m not mad at you. And I don’t think she is, either. I think she was hurt, more than anything.”
“Yeah, well . . .” The song changes. Something a bit softer. “No one tells me what to do or how to do it when it comes to my life or Luke’s. Unless you’ve walked in my shoes, you don’t get to judge.”
I chew on my bottom lip as I try to figure out what he means. Does he know what my conversation with his mom was about today?
Or is he referring to something else altogether? I decide to bite the bullet and get it out in the open. If I’m going to be held to some unobtainable standard, I might as well know what it is.
“What happened with Claire?”
I catch the subtle hitch in his breath, but when he doesn’t respond right away, I assume he isn’t going to answer. When he finally speaks, it takes me by surprise. “We started dating after I got back from flight school. I fell fast and hard and she was my everything. She got pregnant. I thought we had forever. And she left. The end.”
Trying to digest the understandable hurt and derision that edges his voice, I clear my throat and prepare for his temper. “Why did she leave?”
“Why did she leave?”
The scrub of his hand over his shadowed stubble fills the night around us as I sit and wait.
“She left because her precious parents on the hill couldn’t handle her dirtying her hands with a public servant like me.”
Public servant? The man flies a helicopter and saves people for a living. That is hardly digging ditches, but even if it were, what would it matter? Then again, the Hoskins were always rooted in their money and status.
So are the Thortons.
I must blink ten times as I try to comprehend what he’s telling me. What he’s implying. What I don’t want to believe.
That someone would choose their status over love. That someone would choose abandonment instead of parenthood to maintain their societal prestige.
My mom came from a blue-collar family, and it never stopped my father from loving or marrying or having a life with her. Love is love.
“But there was Luke,” I say, still trying to process.
“Yes, there was Luke.” He grabs a fresh beer from the cooler tucked in the corner. The crack of its top coming off reverberates around the uncomfortable silence. He braces his hands on the railing of the porch and looks out into the darkness. His shoulders are broad but defeated, and I can’t seem to look away from them as he continues. “When Mommy and Daddy Warbucks threaten to yank your trust fund if you decide to disgrace your family by having a child at age twenty, and with a commoner, well then, you realize that money talks, and love gets shit-canned—and your kid does, too—without a goddamn second thought.”
It was horrible to even think it was possible to be so shallow, but hearing Grayson confirm it, listening to the pain owning every syllable he spoke, shows me only a sliver of what he endured.
Of what he still lives with.
“But there was Luke,” I repeat.
“Yep, there was Luke. And her family made sure to offer a nice cash settlement when she signed the paperwork giving up all rights to him. A little something to grease my palm so I wouldn’t spread harmful rumors about their beloved princess.” He finally turns my way, and there is pain and anger etched in every line of his face. My heart hurts for him and what I can only imagine he went through. “Needless to say, I tore the check up. Watched it burn in the fireplace. There was no way I was going to take their guilt money and live on it—no matter how much I needed it at the time. No fucking way.”
He angles his head and meets my eyes, and there is so much inexplicable emotion in his that I just want to crawl into his arms and hold on . . . but I know that’s crossing some invisible line we’ve drawn.
“Grayson, I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.”
“Yeah, well, rock-bottom about sums it up.” He takes a long pull on his beer. “What about you, Sidney? How come you aren’t married with two-point-five kids sitting pretty in your high-rise in the city?”
“Because that isn’t what I expected out of my life.”
“What do you want out of your life?”
I shrug, knowing it’s going to sound so very different from the life he leads. “I wanted a career and the freedom to move about as I please.”
“You mean head off to St. Tropez on a whim?”
I glare at him. “That’s not fair.”
“Yeah, well . . . it’s the life you’re used to, right?”
“Does it look like that’s the life I’m used to?” I hold my hands out, knowing that it’s the only defense I have when he’s right. Packing my bags and leaving at the drop of a hat is what I sometimes do . . . because I can.
“Yes. It does. So that begs the question, what in the hell are you doing here in Sunnyville? You told me you were here to help save the magazine. Fine. But there’s more there you aren’t telling me.” He’s ready to pounce on any response that I give, so I give him the truth.
“I screwed up.” I think I’m startled by the admission as much as he is. “I was working for the main office of Thorton Publishing. We had a big interview with Wendy Whitaker.”
“You mean the fashion lady who’s on all the shows? The one who just blew the whistle on the fashion designer and his abusive behavior?”
“She’s the one, and that was our exclusive . . . until I botched it.” I can still feel the crushing panic I felt when I realized what time it was and that I’d missed our appointment. “She had contacted my father and said she wanted to speak to me personally. We had met at industry events because fashion is where my passion lies, and she knew enough about me to know I would keep her name quiet. Anyway, she told my father he could have the exclusive for our weekly news magazine. It was all set up. Then Zoey, my best friend, called me because she needed me—like needed me, needed me,” I say, not wanting to spill her secrets. “I was so busy helping her that time flew, and I missed the meeting.”
“And the story broke elsewhere.”
“Yep. And her name with it, when she wanted it to be kept secret.” I stare at the streetlight a little way down the road before I respond. “I screwed up big time.”
“Choices always have a chain reaction. How did that chain reaction lead you to Sunnyville?”
“My dad was pissed, which is putting it mildly, since it wasn’t the first time I had done something to let him down—”
“Impossible expectations? It’s always hard working for a family member.”
“Perhaps, but I really did screw up. Not only did I let him down, but also, I let myself down.” I glance his way, expecting judgment but finding compassion instead. “My dad said I was acting like Richie Rich. Wanting everything without having to work for it.” I say the words knowing full well how they are going to hit his ears after everything he went through with Claire.
“And what is the everything that you want?” He angles his head to the side and holds my gaze. I hate that I almost tell him that it’s him I want.
Then I get a grip and come to my senses.
“My two loves are fashion and writing about fashion,” I explain as his eyes narrow some as he tries to follow me. “That’s the job I want someday, to be an editor-in-chief of a fashion magazine, so I can do something that has to do with both. For now though, it’s proving myself to my father and boosting the circulation of Modern Family somehow and increasing the online constituency.”
“So, the contest was your idea?” he asks. I nod, feeling rather shy about it all of a sudden. “And how are you managing living in small-town USA when it isn’t your thing?”
“There’s nothing wrong with small-town USA, but—”
“Those red-soled shoes of yours don’t quite fit the town image for you.” Irritation edges his voice.
“That isn’t fair, Grayson.”
His chuckle fills the air as he looks at me over the edge of his bottle as he tips it up. “It doesn’t seem that life is fair much at all.”
When I rise from my seat, I have no idea what my intentions are, but I make my way across the short distance and stop right in front of him. We stare at each other for a moment as the crickets continue to sing and the moths fly in front of the porch light, casting shadows that shift and dance around us.
“And when you tire of Sunnyville like you did before . . . what then? Where to then?”
I stare at him and am thankful for the shadow over my face because I realize that I never told him I was leaving. I never explained to him that after this contest, I was moving on.
For the life of me, I can’t bring myself to say the words. I can’t make myself tell him that I’ll be leaving in a few months. Telling him about my dream job was my subtle way of letting him know that I’m not here long term . . . and yet I fumble with what to say because the thought of not being near him is suddenly unwelcome. When I finally speak, my words are soft and my voice breaks. “Just because I like my red soles, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t fit in here if I wanted to. I did once.”
“You did once because you were born here, but from what I remember, you were always itching for more of the limelight. You’d sit in that diner and talk about all the places you wanted to go, while some of your friends talked about the next party, the next whatever that wouldn’t mean shit once you graduated.”
I stare at him, a little shocked, a lot moved. “You really paid attention, didn’t you?”
We spent so many nights in that diner. So many nights filling space and being obnoxious—throwing our napkins and straws on the floor and not caring that he was going to have to clean them up. So many hours of mindless chatter after the diner had closed, none of us caring about the boy named Gray behind the counter who probably wanted to go home.
“It was hard to ignore you when your crew would take over Lulu’s for hours on end.” He lifts his eyebrows as if to say he didn’t have a choice.
“Speaking of that . . .” I take a deep breath. “I owe you an apology for how I acted back then. I was immature, and you were always nice regardless of how rude we were or how late we kept you when I’m sure you wanted to clock out. I’m not that girl anymore. The one who was so wrapped up in herself she’d rather ignore someone else than risk looking uncool to her friends.”
He just stares at me with a nod that’s meaning I can’t discern. Our gazes hold, his blue eyes to my brown, as we try to wade through this conversation that is bringing up things people talk about when they are in a relationship. Things people talk about when they are trying to understand each other better.
“We all change.” He takes a long sip of his beer. “So, when you left here, did you find what you were looking for, Sidney? Is your sterile glass tower warm at night? I might not live the high-life, but my house is warm and full of laughter and love and little-boy cooties.”
I hesitate to respond. I hate that his words make me realize how many nights I go to bed alone, and even though I tell myself that’s what I want, I remember how I felt a few weeks back when Luke was chatting and Grayson was on his iPad and everything felt so very different from what I’m used to.
“Maybe I was itching for the limelight, Grayson, but you can’t fault someone for wanting to spread their wings. Like you said, people change. People try things and see if they like them. If they don’t, then they adjust and try again. You changed. You used to be shy and unassertive, and you’re neither anymore. Should I fault you for being that way?”
“No. I learned from my mistakes.”
He stares at me, that muscle pulsing in his jaw and his subtle scent of shampoo and soap filling my nose. There are so many things he wants to say written in those eyes of his.
“We’ve done enough talking, Malone,” I murmur as I take the initiative for the first time since we’ve met. I lean forward and kiss him. Gently. Slowly. Teasingly. His body jolts in surprise. “You canceled our date.”
Another kiss. A slide of his hand up my back to pull me into the V of his thighs where he’s sitting on the railing. Another soft sigh into the night.
“I figured you’d had enough of my crazy life.” He chuckles and then meets my lips again.
“Not crazy. Just protective.” Our lips brush over each other’s as we speak. His hand cups the back of my neck. His thighs squeeze gently against mine. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean to upset you, and I didn’t look at the situation through your eyes or Luke’s.”
“I’m sorry I went off the deep end.”
“Not that I’m any judge of it, but you really are a good father. You just need to remember that it’s okay to be a man, too.”
He guides my hand to rest atop where his dick is hard and presses against the fabric of his shorts. “Is that man enough for you?” I chuckle against his lips.
Just the feel of him hard for me sends a hit of desire straight to the delta of my thighs.
“Is this the part where we kiss and make up?” I ask as every sense goes on high alert at the mere promise of another kiss. Of another touch. Of him.
Our lips meet. Our tongues dance. Our bodies react.
“I like this part,” he murmurs as one hand slides under the back of my shirt so that his fingers skim along the skin just above my waistband. He drugs me with his mouth. He entices me with his touch. He makes me anticipate with that groan in the back of his throat. “Luke’s inside,” he murmurs against my lips and rests his forehead against mine.
“And?”
“And what if he wakes up?”
“It seems you have eyes in the back of your head when it comes to him, so I think it would be perfectly fine if you kissed me.”
“Like this?”
His lips possess mine. Thoroughly. Intoxicatingly.
“Just like that.”