Chapter 10 – Hannah

There are many reasons I love Beautiful Pour, one of which is that the atmosphere is light. Everyone who works here is friendly, and they always have the best music on. It usually doesn’t have words, but it helps me concentrate when I come here to work.

The coffee is truly the best, and they have homemade treats for dogs. But the main reason is how comfy the chairs are. Sounds weird. But the chairs feel exactly like the bean bags they have in the corner. I could sit here all day, and my legs wouldn’t fall asleep like they do when I’m in the office or on any other chair.

“Hey, Kitten.” His voice comes out strained in a way that immediately sends worry through me. When I look up at him, it’s like looking into the eyes of a stranger. The light blue I’m accustomed to seeing is dark and stormy, almost taking on a greyish tint.

“Hey, are you okay?” I close my laptop, giving him all my attention. He doesn’t respond; he just sits down across from me and slides me his phone. He has it silenced, but it’s vibrating left and right. I’m talking every couple of seconds. Reading the texts that are coming in, my hand covers my mouth.

“Greyson, what? Who is this?” I watch as his shoulders slump; he puts his elbows on the table and puts his head in his hands. These texts are horrible. They sound a whole lot like my dad used to.

“You wouldn’t be where you are without me, G.”

“I know you still think about me. I’m hard to forget.”

“No one else is going to put up with your moods.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I miss you.”

“Please come back. We were meant to be together. We can start our family.” And the one that sets my blood ablaze.

“I’m not going to let you ruin my life because you think you’re too good for me. You’re nothing, Greyson. Nothing. I made you who you are.”

Every single one of them was from a different number; he couldn’t block it if he tried. I bring my head up to look at him, he’s staring at a spot on the table, but I can see the tears rimming his lashes. It’s like looking at a mirror of my high school self. I put my hand on his wrist and waited for him to look at me. “What can I do?” I know this feeling. It’s bone-deep, embedded into the very fabric I’m made of.

“She won’t stop. She won’t leave me alone. I...” His voice breaks, and he starts to rock back and forth, hands pulling at his hair. My own eyes well with tears at the sight. “I can’t take it anymore.” My heart breaks for this man. The wound in my soul bleeds for the one in his.

The sight of him unraveling pulls at every protective instinct I have. “What do you need?”

“A hug, a restraining order. And probably a new phone number. Preferably in that order.” There’s the man I know; he’s in there somewhere. I walk around the table and give him a hug. My cheek rests on the top of his head; his rests on my shoulder. I mean, he is a giant compared to me.

As soon as I pull away, his phone vibrates again. This time, with a phone call, it’s not a number he has saved. Chances are pretty high it's her. “May I?” He nods.

“Hello?” There’s a g asp on the other end, which makes a small smile form on my lips.

“Excuse me? Who are you, and why are you answering Greyson’s phone.” Eww, her voice is awful. Reminds me of Yzma from The Emperor's New Groove.

“Greyson? I’m sorry honey, I think you have the wrong number.” I look over at Greyson; the side of his mouth pulls into a half smile. I like that I put it there.

“Listen here, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but you need to give my boyfriend his phone back.”

“Oh my. Bless your heart.” I say in the most condescending tone I can muster, my head tilting to the side as if she could actually see me. “I don’t know who your boyfriend is, but there is no Greyson here. So, take the hint and lose this number as it is mine. ”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a small twitch on his lips. I throw a wink in his direction, but I’m not done with this woman. “I’m sorry you’ve misplaced your boyfriend. I’m assuming all the random numbered texts I’ve been getting are from you, too. You can go ahead and knock that off as well. Best of luck to you, honey!” I hang up before she can get another word in.

His gaze holds mine for what seems like an eternity. I wonder if he can hear how fast my heart is beating because I certainly can as the blood rushes to my ears. I find my attention falls from his eyes to his lips, questioning if they're as soft as they look. I wondered if he’d run away if I pressed mine to his and if he’d catch me if I started to fall. Wait, no, Hannah. Snap out of it.

I force myself to look away as if the floor holds the key to all life's greatest mysteries. A throat clears, and seconds later, I’m wrapped back up in his arms. “That,” H is voice low and warm, “was awesome.” His chuckle vibrates through my body. “Thank you. It’s been a while since someone stood up for me like that.”

I’m torn between staying where I am and bolting out the door. This is dangerous territory; I have plans and goals. And none of them have anything to do with men. “You’re welcome.” I finally managed, and my voice was more breathy than I’d like. I pull away slightly, but his arms squeeze around me, holding me in place for a bit longer than necessary.

His eyes meet mine once again, and I find myself lost in the depths of the storm surging through them. “Don’t let it go to your head.” My feeble attempt to break the tension of the situation epically fails as a maddening smirk crosses his face.

“Too late, Kitten.”

Before I had a chance to say anything else, a loud voice called from somewhere behind him, “There they are!” We both turn to follow the sound; I roll my eyes, stepping out of his hold but still feeling the heat from him like a branding on my skin. This means nothing, Hannah. It has to mean nothing.

The weight from moments ago fades away as we watch Reed, Monroe, Samuels, and Wilson walk toward the table. They are a sight for sore eyes. Reed and Monroe are the tallest of the four. They have similar hair coloring. It’s a dirty blonde shade; Reed’s is longer and pulled up into a bun at the nape of his neck; Monroe’s is shaggy and hanging in front of his eyes a bit. Their smiles could melt the heart of the sun.

Samuels has these steel gray eyes that capture your attention the second you see them; his skin is olive, and you can tell he spends his free time outside in the sun. His sun-kissed skin up against those eyes and black hair. I’m s urprised the women here aren’t falling at his feet.

Then you’ve got Brett Wilson. He’s a man of few words, built like a solid brick wall. His long brown hair hangs to his shoulders, and the green of his eyes reminds me of the fields back in Alabama in the spring. He’s missing a tooth or two, but when he’s not on the ice, you wouldn’t know that because he’s got fake ones. They all have beautiful smiles, and right now, they’re all aimed at Greyson and I.

“I heard there was a planning party; we wanted to be part of it.” Monroe claps his hands together so loudly that half the cafe turns to look at him. Greyson rolls his eyes with more force than necessary.

Reed pulls a chair out. Turning it backward, he plops himself down and leans against the back. He oozes the confidence of his Captain status off the ice the same as he does when he’s on it. “I hear there will be dunk tanks and funnel cakes.” His head tilts slightly to the side as his gaze moves from Greyson to me.

Placing my elbows on the table, I lace my fingers together and rest my chin on the backs of my hands. “Yup, along with some other games.” I wiggle my eyebrows in Grey’s direction. His eyes are still sad as he sends a guarded smile in my direction. “Something tells me the dunk tanks are going to turn into a competition between the teams.” Men and their competitive nature.

“I talked to Coach this morning; the entire team will be in attendance, along with the coaching staff, trainers, and equipment managers,” Wilson adds from the other side of the table that seems to have shrunk the moment they sat down.

“Okay, wow!” My eyebro ws shoot towards my hairline, “That’s great; the kids will be so excited.” Ever since the girls and I went to visit with some of the kids, there’s been a fire lit in me to make this the best event they’ve ever been to. Their cute little smiles are my favorite form of payment.

“I’m still a little salty that you won’t let me wear a white t-shirt. Andrews was on to something there.” Samuels's bottom lip juts out into a pout that looks so out of place on his face. My heart warms a bit at this whole interaction. Usually, I run at the first sign of a forming attachment, but this feels nice. The gut-clenching need to run to save myself from being hurt isn’t present. If I’m being honest, I don’t really know what to do with that. Especially because every time my eyes drifted to Greyson, I found his eyes were already on me.

We talk more about carnival business; I learn a little about Wilson. He was one of the kids who benefitted from these programs when he was young. It gives me hope that this event will positively affect some of them. We then transition into where they want their season to go, where they actually believe it’ll go, and which teams they’re most excited to play. They asked me a bit about what it was like growing up in Alabama and if I was more of a Tide or a Tigers fan. Of course, my answer was neither—I’m an East Coast U Sea Turtle all the way.

The conversation flowed like we’d been buddies our whole life. This is the side of them I tried to accurately portray in their interviews; I think I did a pretty good job of that, if I do say so myself.

“Well, we’re going to head out. The pool is calling our names!” Samuels jumps to his feet, stretching his arms above his head, absolutely giving the rest of the pa trons a little show as he flexes them while he brings them back down to his sides.

“You coming, Wilder?” Monroe asks as the rest of them get to their feet.

“Nah, I’m gonna hang around here for a bit.” He looks at me before turning back to his teammates. “Maybe grab some food, then chill for the rest of the day.” They nod and wave at the two of us as they turn and head for the door.

“Sorry about the interruption.” He spins his phone in a circle on the table like it’s a pinwheel. I place mine over his, stopping his anxious fidgeting.

“It was nice getting to talk to them outside of the rink. They’re pretty cool dudes.” I give his hand a reassuring squeeze and smile at the flush that’s crept up his neck. Adorable.

“Thank you for earlier.” His eyes meet mine, and they almost look nervous, which I don’t understand until he asks. “Are you hungry? If you have no other plans, we could have lunch and hang out at my place. It’s a five-minute walk from here.” His hands run across the top of his thighs as he waits for my response.

“Only if there’s pizza involved, babe.” I cringe; why did I call him that? And why did I agree to hang out with him alone?

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” He reaches his hand across the table, waiting for me to shake it. I place my hand in his, giving it a firm squeeze and a shake. We both get up and walk towards the door.

I steal a glance up at him through my lashes, and my heart picks up its pace at the crooked smile on his face. He doesn’t look at me, though, and for that, I am eternally grateful because I would turn into a puddle right here on the floor.

Lord above, give me strength. This is a horrible idea.

Walking into Greyson’s apartment, I notice that it’s not the typical bachelor pad you picture when you think of young single athletes. It’s homey, and it feels lived in and inviting. The back wall is made up of all windows, letting the Florida sunshine in. One of the things I love most about living here is that while it may be hot, the natural light we get here is worth it.

His couch is probably the most “bro” thing in here. It’s one of those leather ones that comes with buttons on the arms to recline the back of the spot you’re in. There are throw pillows that accent the more manly, beachy vibe the rest of the room has, orange and darker blues. There’s a folded blanket on the arm, and it makes me want to cuddle up in the corner.

There are pictures of his family everywhere you look and it pulls at my heartstrings. I miss my mom and brother. We're closer now than we were when I was in high school, but my brother and I talk every once in a while. It makes me sad; he’s in college now. He’s got his own life, and he doesn’t want his big sister to cramp his style.

I walk to the kitchen island and put my bag down on one of the bar stools. “What kind of pizza do you like? There’s a great place right down the street; it’s the closest thing to New York pizza I’ve ever had outside of The Big Apple.”

“I think I want pineapple and bacon with white sauce. The sweet and salty combo is really doing it for me today.” I focus on a spot on his kitchen island so I don’t lose control and ruin the whole thing.

His head snaps up, blue ey es wide in shock; it’s not an uncommon reaction. I’m one of the very few people who likes pineapple on pizza. However, I will only eat it if it’s made with white sauce. “You. Pine.. WHAT?” He all but screeches with a look of disbelief and slight disgust. “I mean, I knew people like you existed, but dang, Hannah, you just ruined the whole “perfect girl” image I had of you going on in my head.”

I can’t help the sound that comes out; it’s loud and accompanied by a snort. Slapping my hand over my mouth, I bend at the waist and bury my head in my arms on top of the island. My shoulders shaking with laughter, hello butterfly garden.

“Wait, are you serious, or was that some kind of cruel joke?”

“I do like pineapple on pizza,” I straighten myself out, looking up in time to see him turn his back to me, his head shaking as he taps away on his phone. “Yes, only if it’s made the way I described it, though. But pepperoni is also a good option.”

He mumbles to himself as he walks around the island to the refrigerator and pulls out two bottles of water. He sets one down in front of me and just stares for a few seconds before looking back down at his phone to finish the order, then he places his phone down. “I’m going to try my hardest not to hold your subpar pizza-topping choices against you.” He stares at me for a minute, his fingers drumming on the countertop, before a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “But I can’t promise you I won’t uninvite you to all future pizza and game nights.”

“Wait, you have pizza and game nights?! Game nights are my favorite! I kick some serious butt at Candy Land.”

“Candy land? What are you five? We play big kid games like Go Fish at game nights.” We hold each other’s stare for a second before we both start laughing. And not jus t a little laugh; it’s a laughing fit—the one that hurts your sides, and you want to stop but can’t. Then, by the time you can pull yourself together, one of you laughs again, and it sets off the chain reaction all over again. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this hard.

I can’t remember the last time I felt this comfortable around anyone who wasn’t Abby, for that matter. “Okay, let’s make a deal.” he starts, “When the pizza gets here, I want to get to know my new friend.” There go the alarm bells, which are a bit delayed there, brain.

“I’m not that interesting, Grey, really.” My arms wrap around my middle, acting as a shield to hide the internal wounds.

“I find that hard to believe. I don’t want the surface-level stuff that you give away to people. I want the deep stuff, the ugly stuff. I want to know what makes you tick. I want to know what color reminds you of your happiest moment and why. I want to know what song puts a smile on your face or brings you to tears, and I want to know the story behind it. I want to know you, Hannah, the real Hannah. Not the one you’ve been shaped to be or who you think you should be. Just you.”

Looking him dead in the eyes, I can tell he means every word. There’s no malice there, no judgment, no hidden motive. “But why?” Is all my mind can compute during its current 400-meter sprint.

“I’m drawn to you for some reason I can’t explain. Maybe your pain calls to mine. Maybe it’s the way you carry yourself, the way you stood up for me earlier when you had no reason other than the fact that you wanted to help. I’m questioning myself because sometimes I wonder if my brain is tricking me into believing someone like you exists. Be autiful, kind, caring. I don’t know, but the harder I try to fight it, the harder the pull is.”

The words “someone like you” replay like a horror reel. Instead of carrying the same weight of condemnation they had from my dad, they hold a positive sentiment. I have no words; my brain is currently flashing error 404, page not found.“I’m used to honesty being an excuse for someone to be mean. But you, Greyson Wilder, have proven me wrong once again.”

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