Chapter 26
Carly
Seven Weeks
A week later, I still have no idea what the hell is going on with Grayson. The resort happened, but then we came home and… nothing.
Not bad nothing. Not awkward nothing. Not him pulling away in some dramatic, cold, punishing way. Just normal.
That might honestly be worse.
He’s still Grayson at work, still focused, terse, and distractingly competent.
Still Gray at home in these small, quiet ways that feel somehow even more dangerous now — coffee waiting for me in the morning, a hand at the small of my back when he slips past me in the kitchen, looks that linger too long and then disappear before I can figure out what they mean.
But there's no kissing, no late-night slipping into each other’s rooms. Nothing that gives me any clue where I stand.
So naturally, when he asks if I want to come with him and Maddox to the CU-CSU rivalry game in Fort Collins while Penelope is with Halsey for the night, I say yes like I'd been waiting days for something.
I made the mistake of assuming it would be a normal, composed, watch-the-game-politely kind of outing. That assumption lasts maybe ten minutes.
The VIP box is ridiculous. Warm, private, catered, with leather seats and glass windows overlooking the field like we’re football royalty.
Maddox acts like this is normal. Grayson acts like this is normal.
I try to act like this is normal while absolutely not losing my mind over the fact that the Buffs are literally right there and I can see the entire field so clearly I could call a foul.
But on top of that, I love football. I grew up in Boulder. I went to CU. Buffalo blood runs in my veins.
By the end of the first quarter, I’m two drinks in, standing every time something exciting happens, and yelling at nineteen-year-olds through a pane of glass like they can hear me.
“Are you kidding me?” I shout as one of the Buffs misses a catch he absolutely should have made. “That hit both your hands!”
Maddox starts laughing into his beer.
I point at the field like the receiver personally betrayed me. “That was embarrassing.”
Beside me, Grayson leans back in his seat, whiskey in hand, watching me with the most annoyingly entertained look I have ever seen on a human face.
“What?” I demand.
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You’re smirking.”
“I’m not smirking.”
“He’s definitely smirking,” Maddox chimes in.
Grayson ignores him. “Didn’t realize you had this in you.”
I cross my arms. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
He takes a slow sip of his drink. “You’re a little feral.”
I mock gasp. “I am passionate.”
“Same thing,” Maddox says.
I flip him off without heat and turn back toward the field just in time to see CU force a turnover, and promptly lose my mind.
I’m shouting. I’m clapping. I might be cursing a little. At some point, Grayson's standing with me, and I grab his forearm without thinking when a play gets too close for comfort. He looks down at my hand like it’s the most interesting thing in the room.
By halftime, I’m fully gone.
Not drunk-drunk, just loose and loud enough that I’m starting to suspect I may, in fact, be embarrassing myself in front of two former NFL players and whoever else is in the neighboring boxes.
The thought hits hardest when I bark, “Oh, come on!” at a ref and then realize both Maddox and Grayson are looking at me.
I sink back into my seat. “I’m being obnoxious, aren’t I?”
Maddox opens his mouth, probably to say something smart-assed, but Grayson beats him to it. “No.”
I narrow my gaze at him. “Be honest.”
“I am.” His mouth tips at one corner. “Keep going. This is fun.”
Maddox nods solemnly. “Honestly, I’m with him. Yell at the defense again.”
I stare at both of them. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Not even a little,” Grayson says, holding out his hand for me to get back up. I take it, watching him, and he… he doesn't even look like he's lying. He looks delighted, and to my absolute surprise, fond. I know that look. I've seen that look, but not pointed at me.
That might be worse than lust. I know how to handle Grayson's lust. Fond feels like a loaded weapon in his hands.
The giant screen above the field changes as the players reset, and the box around us lights up brighter.
Our faces are on the screen.
My stomach drops. “Oh my god.”
The camera has us dead center, no doubt because Grayson Sparkks is in the building and the universe hates me personally.
Maddox is already laughing, barely in frame on the screen. Somewhere below us, the crowd noise shifts into that unmistakable, delighted roar of people realizing what’s happening.
I don’t even need the giant pink heart graphics blooming around our heads to know we’re on kiss cam.
“No,” I say immediately, which would be a lot more convincing if I weren’t already laughing in horror.
The crowd gets louder.
Maddox pounds one fist against the glass, laughing. “Oh, you have to.”
Grayson shifts beside me, and before I can fully process what he's doing, he reaches for me.
My pulse goes feral.
I look up at him. “We really don’t have to do this.” I mean it, too. The last thing I want is to put him on the spot in front of a crowd that knows exactly who he is.
His arm wraps around my waist, the other coming up to cup my cheek. He leans down slightly, dark green eyes fixed on me. “Relax, sweetheart.”
His mouth meets mine, and it's not quick, not a joke, not a half-assed public display. He kisses me like he’s got something to prove to the entire stadium.
One second, I’m upright and blinking at him, and the next, he’s dipped me backward with his arm holding me up, the whole world tilting as the crowd absolutely loses its mind.
I make a startled sound against his mouth and grab at his shoulders on instinct. He just kisses me deeper, smiling a little into it like he knows exactly what this is doing to me.
When he finally pulls me back up, I'm ninety percent sure my face is on fire.
The screen cuts away a second later, the crowd moving on to whatever comes next, but I am still standing there staring at him like he's scrambled my mind.
Maddox is cackling.
“You—you bent me backward,” I stutter, blinking at him.
He shrugs, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he lets me go. “Wanted to.”
Heat climbs all the way to my scalp.
Maddox makes a sound like he’s watching live sports and reality television at the same time. “I’m so glad I came.”
I sit back down because I can barely process what just happened, and Grayson sits beside me, close on the couch. I nearly jolt when he drapes his arm across the back of my seat. A second later, his hand settles on my shoulder.
It stays there. For the rest of the game. Like this is normal, like I belong there, like he didn’t just rearrange the wrinkles of my brain on a kiss cam in front of thousands, if not millions when you include the broadcast, of people.
I should probably be watching the fourth quarter.
The Buffs are up, but CSU is still being annoyingly scrappy about it.
Actual game developments are happening. But I spend most of the rest of the night hyperaware of the weight of Grayson’s arm around me, the lazy brush of his thumb over my shoulder, and the fact that every now and then, when I shout at the field, he laughs under his breath and pulls me a little closer.
What the fuck is happening?