Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Grayson
“Sounds perfect.”
Honestly, he could have suggested we sit on the couch and have a movie marathon all day and I would have agreed. I don’t care what we do. I care that he invited me here and that I’m about to have five full days of uninterrupted time with him. I care about the fact that he’s looking at me like he wants to butter me up and eat me for breakfast.
His house is massive and modern. There are also, I note, more bedrooms than just his. He smirks when he sees me noticing and shrugs as though to say can you blame me for lying? The main floor of the house is just one massive room, separated by strategically placed furniture to give the appearance of separate areas. An entire wall of windows overlooks the beach. The ocean stretches out endlessly, meeting with the sky seamlessly. I can immediately see why anyone, but Remy in particular, would buy this house .
“No chance of feeling claustrophobic here,” I observe, and his eyes light up in surprise.
“Exactly.” He steps up beside me to wrap an arm around my waist. Lifting my arm, I drape it around his shoulders and pull him in closer. This sudden affection is new, but I can’t pretend I don’t enjoy it. If he wants to be constantly touching me for the next five days, he won’t hear any complaints from me.
The gym and pool situation on the lower level is ridiculous in its extravagance, but so badass I can’t even bring myself to make fun of him for it. Crouching down, I trail my fingers through the water while Remy stands beside me.
“Goes without saying, but anything of mine is yours,” he tells me as we walk back upstairs. “And this is for you, by the way. From my mom.”
He looks a little sheepish when he leans against the counter and watches me open the gift. When I hold up a candle, we share a smile. It smells good; a little like Remy does, actually, with hints of coconut and mint. I already know I’m going to be burning this in my bedroom when I’m back home and missing him.
“She probably made all of that,” he says when he notices me looking for a label. “She’s big into the holistic stuff, you know? And she has a garden where she grows all the herbs and shit. I told her about you and that’s why she…”
He trails off, still looking adorably embarrassed. I hold up a bag of loose-leaf tea and smell it. “She made this?”
“Yeah.” He shifts, scratching at the back of his neck and blushing.
“Wow, that’s impressive. Does she sell all of this?”
“Oh, yeah, for sure.” He relaxes a little bit, no longer worried that I’m about to make fun of his mom or her gift. “ There are a lot of farmer’s markets and craft fairs around here. She has a lot of regulars that will just show up at her house and buy stuff from her. It’s pretty wild.”
I put everything back on the counter. “This is incredibly thoughtful. I’d like to thank her in person, if you’re planning a visit while we’re here. Or, if you’d prefer, I can send her a?—”
“I want you to meet her,” he interrupts. “I told her about you; that you were coming. She’s excited to meet you.”
I want to ask exactly what he told her about me. About us. I doubt he disclosed the exact nature of our relationship, but the thoughtfulness of the gift suggests he’s talked about me enough for her to know I prefer tea to coffee, and that I’m obsessed with the way her son smells. Instead of pressing him for more information, I put it on the back burner for now. Today I just want to enjoy his company without worrying about what we are or what our future looks like.
As I suspected, Remy on the beach is sexy enough to have me half-hard every time I look at him for too long. His shorts are slung low enough on his hips to show a fair amount of V-line, and they hug his muscular thighs and ass in a way that borders on obscene. He walks in front of me as we head down from his house toward the sand, and I wish I had my phone with me to take a picture of how he looks from behind. All of that bronze skin shining in the sun. The soft, blond baby hairs on the back of his neck, and the dimples at the base of his spine. He reaches a stretch of sand that looks exactly the same as the rest and drops our towels down. Turning, he puts one hand on his hip and reaches the other out to tug on the front of my shirt.
“Time to take this off,” he tells me and then steps close enough to help me do so. Again, the desire to ask him what’s changed is strong. He’s been different from the second we arrived; changed even from how he acted when we met up in January. Only weeks separate the last time we were together, but he’s different enough that I can’t help but give in to hope.
Remy walks straight into the ocean and dives under the water. I follow more carefully. I know how to swim, but I’m not confident enough in my abilities to be totally comfortable in the ocean. The second the water laps against my ankles, I shake my head and step back. Remy, floating a little way away, smiles.
“Nope,” I say, and he laughs.
“Come on, it feels good.”
“It’s freezing, Remy! That water is probably fifty degrees.” I step forward again until the water level reaches my calves, but keep watch for any stray waves. I’m suddenly wary of getting soaked.
“It’s not that cold. Sixty at the lowest. It’s refreshing!” He splashes a little water my way. “I thought Canadians were supposed to be tough? You’re practically half polar bear.”
“Canadian isn’t synonymous with stupid. Swimming in frigid water is stupid.”
He laughs again, the sound carrying over the water. I step a little closer, letting the water rise to the bottom of my board shorts. I’m weighing my options: stay on the beach where it’s warm, or swim out and possibly get frostbite. It’s not really a choice at all though because only one of those options has Remy in it.
He slowly swims backward as I walk toward him, not stopping until both of us are far enough out that our feet don’t touch the bottom. The ocean is flat today, with barely any waves disturbing the surface. Remy swims close enough to cup a hand around my ribs, legs bumping mine as we lazily tread water. His eyelashes are clumped together with moisture; drops of water dotting his cheeks and trailing down from his hair.
“Warmer?”
“Sure, but only because my skin is numb.”
“I’ll heat you up later. Promise.”
His hand slides down my side until he can curl his fingers into the waist of my shorts. I hope it’s simply his way of keeping us from drifting apart in the water and not his way of trying to initiate a hand job. There is no way I’m getting hard until I thaw out.
“You miss living here,” I comment, and he smiles sadly.
“Yeah. Nothing against Canada, but it’s not for me. Especially now that you’re gone. They’ve been dropping hints about offering me an extension, but I’m going to say no. I’d rather have the uncertainty of free agency than another season with those jackasses.”
Not for the first time, I feel bad for leaving. I don’t apologize, though, because we both play the game and know the rules.
“L.A. might not re-sign you, though.” He grimaces, but nods. “I did hear a rumor, though, when I visited Troy for a couple days over Christmas. Corwin mentioned there’s talk of another team coming to the west.”
“No shit. All new or are they moving an established team?”
“No idea. Rumors at this point. But California is a big state; it wouldn’t be beyond reason for them to have two NHL teams.”
He smiles and tips his head back, hair fanning outward in the water. I stare at the column of his throat—the smooth expanse unbroken by facial hair. His Adam’s apple looks the same as any other, but is somehow sexier. Saltwater trickles down his skin, and I want to lick it away.
“I’m not interested in dating other people,” I blurt out, taken in by the sudden madness of Remy being so close physically, but far away emotionally. So much for just enjoying the day before bringing up the hard stuff.
“What’s that?” he asks, lifting his head back out of the water.
“I don’t want to see other people. At all.” Ever.
He moves a little closer, either by his own doing or the ocean’s. His fingers are still holding my waistband, warm and steady against the cool of the water.
“Me either,” he agrees.
I shake my head. “No, but…I don’t mean like what we had before. I can’t do the friends-with-benefits thing with you anymore, Remy, I just can’t. I want more and I know you aren’t in that space right now, and that’s okay. I’m not trying to pressure you. But I can’t pretend I don’t have actual, real feelings for you, because I do.”
“I don’t want to do that anymore either,” he says, before clarifying: “Friends with benefits. That worked for us when I was wanting to experiment, but it doesn’t work for us now.”
I wonder if the sharp pain in my chest is heartbreak or if the cold water is finally succeeding in stopping my heart. I try to swim backward and put a little space between us, but he tightens his grip and follows.
“Okay.”
“Gray.” He gives his head a little shake. “The casual thing worked for me because I was sad and confused about my marriage. It worked because I trusted you. I was attracted to you, even if that confused me, too. I’m neither sad, nor confused anymore. Not about you.” Another shake of his head, as he makes sure I know who the you in this scenario is. “I’m wary about jumping into another relationship so soon, but the thought of you moving on and finding someone else is devastating.”
“I’m not trying to give you an ultimatum.”
“I know. But…” He looks off in the direction of the beach, biting his bottom lip. “I was married for three years, Gray, and never in that time did I feel anything close to what I feel when I’m with you.”
He grimaces at himself, smiling wryly. I wrap my fingers loosely around his wrist and wait for him to continue.
“Amanda figured it out long before I did, that she and I getting married was a mistake. Do I fully trust myself to not make another mistake? No. But I think not taking the chance would be a huge fucking mistake. I want to take the chance on us.”
I have to close my eyes because hearing those words and looking at his face makes me feel a little faint. I don’t want to drown after he just told me everything I’ve wanted to hear for months.
“We’re not a mistake,” I tell him, injecting every ounce of confidence I can. “I know it.”
He smiles a quarter of a smile. “I hope I don’t disappoint you.”
“Let’s go in,” I say, tugging his wrist and nodding toward the beach. I want to get my hands on him and can’t do that when I need them to keep my head above water.
When we get to the shallower part, I waste no time pulling him into my arms. No matter how comfortable Remy claimed the water temperature was, it’s freezing now that we’re no longer submerged and the breeze is blowing against our skin. His skin is pebbled with goose bumps that I smooth away with my palm as I tuck my face into his shoulder.
“You won’t disappoint me.”
“I might,” he mutters. “I didn’t even realize I was living in a failed marriage until I was served papers. You had to move to a whole new country for me to realize I might not enjoy life without you. Hell, I still don’t even know what I am.”
Frowning, I pull away from him.
“What does that mean?”
“Heteroflexible. Pan. Demi. Fluid. Ace.” He shrugs, helplessly. “I’ve got no fucking idea.”
We walk over to the towels and I grab Remy’s before he can. Slinging it over his shoulders, I rub up and down his arms. Water drips from the ends of his hair and his eyes look impossibly bright in the slowly waning light. The sun is already low enough that there is a definite chill in the air where there wasn’t before.
“It doesn’t matter. Putting a label on sexuality makes people feel better because it’s just another way to control everything. ‘Queer’ is enough, you don’t have to take it further unless you want to. You don’t owe anyone your identity.”
“Huh. Why didn’t Google tell me that a thousand searches ago?”
“Google isn’t queer, I guess,” I joke, and earn a laugh. “Listen, if it matters to you, that’s one thing, but if you’re only worried about what everyone else will think, that’s another.”
“No, I guess I just thought that I might feel less confused about this whole thing if I could point at something and say ‘ oh hey, that’s me.’ But I can’t. I look at women and see something I like all the time, but you’re the only man I’ve ever looked at and also wanted to touch.”
“Grayson-sexual,” I say, remembering the way he’d joked about it before. We start walking back up to his house, hands finding each other simultaneously.
“Exactly.”
“You don’t have to tell anyone,” I remind him gently, as we step back into the house. He flicks a switch, flooding the open space with light, and uses our linked hands to tug me toward the kitchen. “If we’re going to be together, it’ll be a long-distance relationship, at least for the time being. Which means it’ll be a hell of a lot easier to hide.”
“I get where you’re coming from, and I thank you for giving me that option, but absolutely-fucking-not.” He lets go of my hand and pats a barstool, obviously wanting me to take a seat. He skirts the counter as I do and opens the refrigerator, pulling out a giant Tupperware of something labeled fishta salad. I have a lot of questions about that, but he keeps talking before I can ask. “I know that you regretted coming out while you were with Calgary, and I get why. And I’m not going to go about shouting that we’re together, but I’m also not going to lie about it if I’m asked. I don’t want to pretend that we’re just friends anymore. If we’re doing this, I want to do it right.”
“All right,” I agree, my voice sounding surprisingly normal even though my insides are currently dancing a conga line. I suddenly want to text every person I know and tell them I’m dating Remy Stone. He starts dishing up fishta salad into bowls, and I’m once more distracted. “What the hell is that?”
“Mm?” He glances up at me .
“Fishta salad,” I prompt. I don’t want to be rude, but Remy told me back when he moved into my place that he couldn’t cook. I’m not about to eat something he cooked the last time he was in town and then left in the refrigerator; especially not if that something has fish in it.
“Oh. My mom left us a bunch of food. She came over to get the house ready for me when I told her we were coming.” He reaches over and pops the refrigerator door open. Inside, dozens of containers are stacked and labeled in neat, organized rows. “This is a recipe she used to make when I was a kid. We always used to have it when we came back from the beach. It’s essentially a pasta salad but there is fish in it, hence?—”
“Fishta salad. Got it.” I nod. “That’s incredible that she did all this for you. She must have been cooking for days to make all of that.”
“I’m an only child, so I get spoiled no matter how old I am,” he says, grinning. “Do you want something different, though?”
“No, no, I’m game for whatever.” I pull my bowl closer and take a bite. Both of us are still wearing nothing but our board shorts; I can see the appeal of living in a place like this, where the weather is always temperate. Remy walking around barefoot and shirtless certainly isn’t a hardship.
“Okay, so,” he says around a mouthful of pasta, “just so we’re clear. You and I are together together. Partners. No dating other people, and certainly not cute bartenders.”
“Remy!” I laugh, and he scowls at me, poking his fork aggressively into his bowl. “There is no cute bartender. It was one date and it was never going to work out. Also, need I remind you that you’re the one who told me to go on that date? I wasn’t even going to call him! ”
“I told you to go, but I didn’t want you to,” he says, as though this is perfectly obvious and not completely insane. “I was hoping you’d say you didn’t want to date the bartender because you were crazy in love with me, and I was the only guy for you.”
“Sure.” I nod seriously. “Sounds like exactly the thing I would say to the guy who told me he only wanted a casual fuck.”
He flicks a chunk of fish at me, hitting me in the chest. I catch it before it can slide to the floor and pop it into my mouth.
“It’s cute that you’re jealous,” I add, lifting a hand in case I have to ward off any more food missiles. “But unnecessary. In fact, I’m crazy in love with you, and you’re the only guy for me.”
“Oh my god,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Eat your dinner, smartass. I’m ready to be fucked within an inch of my life. I want to be walking funny when I get back onto that plane to Calgary.”