CHAPTER 14 #2
I turn to the side, using my other hand to unbuckle, and it takes me a second, so when I go to open the truck door, Graydon’s already there, holding it wide for me.
He holds his hand out to me, and for a second, I stare down at it, wondering why he’s being so kind.
It’s not like I hurt myself at his facility, or during something that we were doing, but ever since he saw me, saw the pain I was in, his attitude has changed from irritated manbeast to irritated yet protective.
And don’t get me started on the pink wrap. I didn’t have to ask to know why he demanded it.
He did it because of my love of flamingos, and I’ve spent the entire time since he put in the request not thinking about how special that request was to me. How much such a simple gesture meant to me.
Because it’s stupid and nonsensical…and yeah, it makes my heart pound just a little faster.
I take his hand, and he helps me out of his truck before quickly letting go of my hand. I turn to him to take my bag, but he doesn’t budge.
“What apartment?” he asks.
“You don’t—”
“What apartment, Baker?”
I should have known that was coming.
With a sigh, I lead the way, bringing him inside the multifamily building split into six different apartments.
I lead him to the back where my door is located and reach into my bag—that he’s still holding—and grab my keys, then unlock the door. I push it open and allow him inside, letting him take in my very plain apartment.
White walls meet sand-colored carpet. White curtains fall over the tall windows, and very minimal tan-colored furniture completes the small one-bedroom apartment.
There’s nothing special about it, not many decorations, and it never bothered me until Graydon St. John stepped into my apartment.
As he takes in the meager dwellings, insecurity pulses through me in an instant.
There’s no doubt in my mind that his place is probably ten times nicer than mine.
Embarrassed, I say, “Uh, I got rid of everything before I moved to Peru, so I really don’t have much.
” If there was one thing I learned being away from Western civilization for three years, it was that we have far more than we need.
Our clothes, our food, our things…there’s just such an excess.
So I didn’t reclutter my life upon returning.
I live simply, I eat simply, and it’s been…
freeing. At least that’s what I like to tell myself.
He sets my bag down on the kitchen counter and turns toward me. “Where is your ibuprofen?”
“In my bathroom, but you don’t need to do anything. Seriously, I can handle this.”
“Tell me to back off one more time, Baker, and see where it gets you,” he says as he charges toward my bathroom.
I guess I won’t be getting rid of him anytime soon, so I move over to my couch, where I take a seat and curl my legs into my chest, resting my bandaged wrist on top of my knees.
He reappears with a small bottle of ibuprofen, clearly not happy about it. Then he moves to my kitchen and pops open my fridge.
Crap, I haven’t gone grocery shopping recently, so it’s really bare in there.
He grumbles something under his breath and pulls his phone from his shorts pocket before tapping away on it.
“Um, what are you doing?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer as he continues to tap away, opens my fridge again, and then does some more tapping.
So I wait.
He goes back to my room, comes back out, and looks in my cabinets.
Then back into my bedroom.
When he returns to the living room, he tugs on the back of his neck, staring down at his phone before he pockets it and then looks up at me.
“Care to share what you were just doing?”
“Do you need to shower or anything?”
“What?” I ask.
“Do you need help showering?”
“Uh…no. I’m good. I took a shower before I left this morning.”
“You showered before a workout?”
“Yes, I didn’t want to smell like early-morning human.”
“Is that a thing?”
“It is.”
He goes with it. “How’s your face?”
“Sore,” I say.
“If you had any sort of ice, I’d offer you some to help with the bruising, but since it seems like you have nothing, I’ll have to wait until my order is delivered.”
“Your order?” I ask, my brows shooting up.
“Yes, my order.” Then he hops up on the kitchen counter and starts scrolling through his phone again, blocking me out.
Well, this is fun.
Graydon walks back into my living room, taking care of the trash accumulated after his “delivery.”
I’m going to tell you, it was anything but a delivery. Because while I clumsily attempted to check emails on my phone and update Everly and Phil on my injuries and current state—very awkwardly typing with one hand—he bought an entire department store along with a grocery store.
I opened my mouth to protest, but he growled at me, so I just sat back, iced my face with an ice pack that he found in the back of my freezer I forgot about, and watched him move around my apartment, unloading food into my fridge and cabinets.
Then he unboxed a brand-new coffee maker, a few mugs, and coffee pods on my counter.
He moved into my bedroom and took out brand-new fluffy white bedding and light pink sheets, along with towels, a bath mat, and whatever else he thought I needed.
He came back into the living room, grabbed the side table he purchased, and set it next to the couch before sticking a potted plant on it.
He draped a few Foghorns T-shirts on the couch arm, a Foghorns tumbler, and of course a mug.
When he was done, he answered the door again for a food delivery that he plated and brought over to me.
I watched him work in silence, my mouth agape as I thought about all the ways I could return the things he purchased, the things I didn’t need, but the things that made this apartment look so much more…homey.
From the light pink area rug to the throw pillows to the freaking candle on the coffee table.
I don’t even know what to say.
What to do.
I don’t know how to respond because with the snap of his fingers, he just turned my entire living situation upside down. And what mammoth football-playing mortal buys pink throw pillows for a virtual stranger’s bedroom? What’s with that? Let alone a potted plant. What is going on?
After he gives me what was inside the food delivery—a bowl of soup and a plate of grilled cheese—he goes back to the kitchen to grab his plate, then makes one final trip for drinks and the bottle of ibuprofen.
He wordlessly hands me a napkin and dives into his food, not even bothering to look at me. I can’t just stay silent anymore.
“Um, what’s going on here?”
He doesn’t answer but instead shoves his sandwich into his mouth.
“Graydon, I’m talking to you.”
He chews, swallows, and then sips from his bottle of Gatorade.
“Hello.” I poke him with my finger.
He glances down at where I poked him in the shoulder and then turns his gaze back to his food.
“Graydon!” I yell, not holding back anymore.
“Stop.” I move his plate away and force him to look at me.
“What the hell is happening? Why did you get me all of this stuff? Why did you march around my place like Joanna Gaines, decorating my apartment? Why are you sitting here, eating lunch with me in silence?”
He drags his napkin over his face and then, without looking at me, says, “I have a sense of responsibility to protect you now that we’re in this agreement. I might not fucking like it, but it’s part of the agreement.”
“What agreement? Because I don’t recall signing anything that says you need to take care of me.”
“It’s unspoken.”
“Uh-huh, and what else is unspoken? Because I’d really like to know what I need to do to hold up my end of the bargain.”
His eyes flash toward me, the darkness creeping into his pupils. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Uh, I don’t know.
I don’t even know what I said to have made him turn on me like that.
“It’s…not…there’s nothing—”
“Because if you’re alluding to sexual favors, I don’t need to fluff someone’s fucking pillows in order to get head.”
My jaw nearly falls to the ground because, oh my God, that is not what I was talking about at all, and the fact that he’d even think that is highly insulting.
“That is not what I meant.”
“Then why don’t you just shut up, eat your food, and be grateful?”
“Excuse me?” I ask, turning toward him. “Did you just tell me to shut up? I don’t care what you’ve done for me today, Graydon. But no one, and I mean no one, talks to me like that.”
He pushes his hand through his hair, making the strands stand on end as he lifts himself from the couch.
He’s quiet for a second, his body thrumming with anger.
Pacing.
Pulling.
Actually distressed.
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He stares down at his plate, still tugging on his hair. “I’m not…I’m not in a good headspace right now.”
“Oh, can I help?”
He shakes his head. “No, can you…just…can you just be quiet right now?”
I’m about to protest, but then his dark, hurt eyes meet mine and I clamp down on my response. He’s hurting.
Actually hurting.
But why?
If it wasn’t for the fact that I experienced the pure distaste and anger that Troy and Graydon shared today, I might have stood my ground and fought with him some more, but those six words—I’m not in a good headspace—hold me back.
It’s the only thing stirring a sense of empathy in me toward him.
And the only reason I didn’t just toss my soup in his face.
He moves over to the counter, sits on top of it, and starts eating again.
I stare at him for a few moments, taking in his turned-in shoulders, the crease in his brow that hasn’t left since I showed up with my injuries, and the tightness in his jaw. I don’t think there’s anything, and I mean anything, that I could do or say that will make this any better.
He’s a closed book, and I’m not about to open it. That’s not my job.
Finding out who he is as a man is not my job.
Nor am I here to be friends with him.
I’m here to work with him to benefit his team and my flamingos—that’s it.
In some respects, he’s lucky I’m as pragmatic as I am.
I have no doubt that someone else might want to work out his feelings, unpack him and see if they could help heal his hurts.
But that’s not what this is. Our time together has a dual purpose, and despite how we have to work together, we can still stay in our lanes.
But because I’m not a jerk, I say, “Thank you…for everything.”
He grumbles something under his breath but then leaves it at that.
I guess we’re done with conversation.