Chapter 26
Hallie
Let the rain kiss you.
~ Langston Hughes
I can’t get enough of Greyson.
The scenery along the road to his house is starting to feel like coming home. I pass out of the neighborhood surrounding the school, through more residential neighborhoods, and then down the long two-lane country road.
Every day Mia’s in school and we’re off duty, I drive to Greyson’s house as soon as I drop her off.
He’s there waiting on his porch, smelling like coffee, and drawing me into the warmth of his arms the moment I step out of the van.
Occasionally before work, we grab a coffee at Mo’s together.
We laugh while Mo teases Greyson, telling me I’m too good for that rascal.
Recently, Mo’s started teasing me too, telling Greyson he’s seen me in the diner with a different man every morning.
The other day he looked Grey dead in the eyes and said, “You’d better lock this beauty down and make an honest woman of her.
She’s a floozy, this one.” I nearly choked on my coffee, droplets flying onto the table.
Greyson just chuckled and put his hand over mine, giving it a soft squeeze while I hurried to mop up the spray with paper napkins from the dispenser.
I’m at every practice and game—in the stands, catching the way he glances over at me when he thinks no one is looking. And when we aren’t exhausted, we wake in the middle of the night to meet in the station kitchen—preferably without Dustin catching us.
We spend nights on the phone after Mia’s asleep, talking about everything and nothing.
And he texts me when we’re not together, telling me he’s thinking of me, or that I looked beautiful the last time he saw me.
He surprises me with his affection—like the time he sent a picture of my coffee creamer sitting in his practically empty fridge with the caption, I’m not the only one who misses you.
We’re grabbing up every spare second we have to spend with one another while being so very careful not to shortchange Mia.
The one thing we dance around is the fact that we’re keeping our relationship a secret.
We both know this arrangement can’t last. But we’re not willing to stop seeing one another.
And the timing is definitely not right to tell Mia.
Just the other day she said, “I miss my daddy.” She hasn’t said that in a year.
But since the family reunion, he’s gone radio silent.
And Mia feels his absence like it’s fresh all over again.
Top that all off with the baseball moms. If they knew I was dating Greyson, they’d really make a stink. But I’m not hiding for their sake. I’m doing it for Mia. She deserves stability and the opportunity to settle into Waterford without her mother’s love life complicating everything.
I turn onto the street leading to Greyson’s property, and the same giddy energy swirls through me as always.
At the end of the driveway, I put my van in park, and oh, me. Oh, my.
Greyson is in a white undershirt, jeans and work boots.
The sunlight spills through the tree branches, illuminating him like a spotlight.
I inhale and let out a slow breath. His wavy hair is tousled—wilder than usual—and he’s wearing protective goggles.
He’s bent over, holding a chainsaw and cutting through a very large branch.
I sit in the driver’s seat and watch him, studying the way he moves, how his muscles bunch under the sleeves of his shirt, the focus in his expression.
He looks up, turns off the saw and walks toward me.
I step out of the van.
“I thought you’d be standing out here with your mug of coffee, waiting,” I say.
“Last night’s windstorm took down quite a few branches around the house. I’m just cutting them down to size.”
He pulls at the safety goggles and props them on his forehead. Why is that move so attractive?
“I can do the rest when you leave,” he says.
“No. I’ll help. Put me to work.”
He cocks a brow at me.
“Greyson, don’t you start in with something about women not being able to …”
He cuts me off. “I wasn’t about to say anything about you not being able to do anything. I’ve seen you bench press, and you hold your own on any job. I just didn’t know if this was how you wanted to spend your morning.”
“I want to spend my morning with you. If it’s cutting branches, then that’s what we’re doing.”
He smiles. “Let me get you some goggles.”
We spend the next hour dragging branches to the side of his house and then we take turns using the chainsaw to cut them into sections.
I’m lugging a branch that’s almost twice as long as I am over to Greyson when a strong gust of wind blows through his property. The sky darkens almost instantly. There’s a flash of lightning followed by an immediate clap of thunder. I drop the branch and latch on to Greyson’s bicep.
“It’s going to rain.” The words aren’t out of my mouth before the water starts coming down in sheets.
We stare at one another through the downpour and laughter bubbles up.
With the chainsaw in one hand, Greyson grabs my hand with his other and we make a dash for the porch, getting soaked as we run.
We’re turning the corner for the front porch steps when my foot lands in a muddy patch with a squelching sound. I slip, going down despite the grip he has on me. Greyson’s holding me by one arm like a rag doll, and I’m covered in mud from the waist down.
Tears of my laughter merge with the rain on my cheeks.
I look up at him and he’s laughing—hair drenched, eyes crinkled, mouth open wide. Our eyes lock and his face momentarily softens.
He sets the chainsaw on the steps, and in one fluid movement, he hoists me into a fireman’s carry and hauls me up to the front door. My stomach presses into his shoulder. My head rests upside down against his back.
But he doesn’t stop at the front door to let me walk on my own.
“Greyson!” I shout through my laughter. “Put me down! I can walk!”
He grunts and pivots, heading around the wraparound porch toward the back door.
He doesn’t even set me down there. And I’ve stopped complaining. His hand has a firm grip on my wrist and his arm is across my thighs. I no longer want down. As a matter of fact, Greyson can just carry me through life.
I laugh quietly to myself. He makes me feel nine years younger—like I’m that girl in Munich with the world and life wide open to her.
Inside the mudroom, he deposits me on the dryer.
“Stay here,” he says, carefully removing my goggles and setting them next to his.
“Greyson! I’m soaked. And muddy.”
“Hallie, I’ve got you.” A shiver runs through me, and it’s not only because I’m wet and chilly.
He shucks his shirt, tossing it into the washer, kicks off his boots and turns to leave. “I’m grabbing towels.”
He pauses. “Don’t move.”
I start to argue, but he gives me a look that tells me he’s not taking no for an answer.
The squish of his socks sounds through the kitchen. I wrap my arms around myself and smile.
A moment later, he’s back with towels, sweats that are way too big for me, a T-shirt, and a brush for my sopping-wet hair.
He leaves me alone to change and I shut the door, removing my wet clothes and plopping them into the washer with his T-shirt.
I towel off and then I roll up the waistband on the sweats and tug the drawstring so I look like I’m wearing a potato sack.
I tug the shirt over my head. It comes practically to my knees. But it’s warm and dry.
I step into the kitchen. Greyson’s already there, eyeing me from head to toe.
I twirl and walk, one foot in front of the other toward him like I’m on a catwalk, only I’m half-laughing, half on fire from the look in his eyes.
“This year’s fashion,” I say, slowing my walk and pivoting away from him and then back toward him. “Is the oversized men’s athletic look.”
I hold my hand under my chin the way Paris fashion week models do, posing and looking at him through my lashes.
“You, sir,” I say to Greyson. “Look like you approve of the season’s finest.”
Greyson doesn’t answer. He stalks toward me. “I like you in my clothes.”
He’s a caveman.
“Is that what this is?” I laugh lightly, running my fingertip over the ridges forming on his forehead. “And this?” I drag my finger down the tightness in his jaw.
“You drive me crazy, Hallie,” he says.
I laugh, but my laughter dies when his lips descend on mine, hungry, but restrained. So very Greyson.
I loop my hands around his shoulders. His wet hair tickles the back of my hands. I sink into our kiss—into the safety and danger that is Greyson Stone.
His kiss turns soft, tender. He cups my jaw, pulling back, pushing my damp hair over my shoulder and staring into my eyes with a raw intensity and sweetness that practically has me buckling at the knees.
He gives one short shake of his head, and then he says, “Let’s get you warmed up.”
I follow Greyson into the living room.
“Have a seat on the couch, Hallie. You can use that blanket if you’re still cold.”
He’s back to being gruff, efficient Greyson—brow furrowed, mouth thin. But his eyes aren’t stern, they’re filled with compassion.
“I didn’t melt in the rain, Grey.”
“I know. I just like caring for you. Let me, okay?”
I grin. “Okay.”
He lays logs in the fireplace across from where I’m sitting, and I watch him, savoring the feel of someone else being the one in charge.
After he pulls a long match out from a canister on the hearth and lights the fire, he asks, “Coffee or cocoa?”
“You,” I answer, taking a page from his book.
He smiles softly and walks over to me, sitting down and pulling me into his arms.
I lift my head. “My hair’s still damp. You’re going to get your shirt all wet.”
“I don’t care, Hallie.”
I want to tell him—how I’m not used to this, even after weeks of him making my coffee, considering me, listening to me, staring at me when he thinks I’m not watching.
But putting words to the contrast feels like I’d be bringing Danny into the room with us.
And the very last person I want in this room is my incapable ex, even if he did inadvertently give me the most precious gift of my life in Mia.
We stay like that, snuggled by the fire.
My hair dries while we share stories and sit in stretches of silence.
Greyson runs his hand up and down my arm in a soothing rhythm.
I curl into him like I never want to leave—because I don’t.
Our eyes lock and he places a soft kiss on my forehead.
I close my eyes, breathing him in, holding on to him as the rain comes down strong and steady outside the door.
When I only have an hour left before I have to leave to get Mia, Greyson looks at his phone, “Your carriage is about to turn into a pumpkin, princess. How about some chili before you go?” His tone is focused and detached and he’s standing as he asks the question.
Neither of us wants life to move forward—separating us again.
“Chili?” I ask, pushing my emotions down and doing the responsible adult thing.
Mia needs me.
“Yeah. I made chili this weekend on our day off.”
He extends a hand and I stand from the couch.
“I’d love a bowl of chili.”
We tread into the kitchen and Greyson heats the chili on the stove, serving each of us a bowl topped with chopped onions and grated cheese.
“So, how ’bout them Llamacorns?” I ask after a few bites.
He chuckles softly. “They’re finding their rhythm. It happens this far into the season every year. Fewer comedic errors. More actual scoring.”
“I’m going to miss those comedic errors,” I say, thinking it might rile him up a little.
He takes baseball seriously, even though he’s so patient and encouraging with the players.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asks, raising his brows playfully.
“I’m already keeping a secret,” I remind him.
He nods.
His voice is conspiratorial. “I love those early weeks when they’re all thumbs.”
“Do you now?” I take another bite of savory goodness.
“Yeah. I do.”
“You’re just full of surprises, Grey.”
“I like when you call me that,” he says, his eyes darting to mine and then down at his chili.
“You know what you are in my phone?” I ask.
“No. What?”
“Ace.”
He grins. “Only to you.”
“Definitely to me.”