Chapter 6 – Grayson
CHAPTER SIX
GRAYSON
I stare at the lights that are on in the old Kraft house on Olympic Street and debate whether to go knock on the door or not.
She deserves an apology.
I was in a shitty mood after leaving the station and seeing everything I’m being shut out of. Then she pushed my buttons when all I wanted to do was sit at the bar and enjoy my goddamn beer before going home to a quiet house. I don’t want to be part of her contest, let alone be the goddamn poster boy for it. I don’t want her friendship. I don’t want an apology for the inconsideration she showed me in high school.
But I stood there in that bar with her body so goddamn close to mine, and all I wanted to do was kiss her. How is that possible? How can I despise her . . . not want anything to do with her, yet, have to force myself to walk away just so I wouldn’t kiss her?
Then there was fucking Mick. Regardless of how harmless the drunk bastard typically is, he only served to complicate the matter. Forced me to be near her when I purposely made myself walk away. Of course, it wasn’t all her fault. Any sane man knows that, but the way she acted—the way she lifted her chin in defiance—or superiority—just like she used to do, and fuck, if my buttons weren’t pressed.
Hell if I didn’t cling to that reaction to push her the fuck away when the adrenaline coursing through my body was begging for it to be my hands on her instead of Mick’s.
Christ.
It’s a bad sign when you want to fuck the person you have determined you hate. When you’re sitting outside her house second-guessing your reaction.
But here I am.
It only took a few calls to find out where she was staying. The Kraft house is a good choice; although, it’s probably far from the high life I’m sure she’s used to outside of town.
My intentions were to march up there, knock on the door, and apologize for being a dick. For accusing her of setting the whole situation up. And to let her know that I will not be her trophy to put on display to save her magazine. If it’s Sidney Thorton, then there has to be something in this for her. The girl I used to know did nothing unless she got something in return.
But I haven’t done shit. Instead, I’m sitting here realizing the excuse I made to myself—to make sure she’d made it home okay—has been surpassed by my need to apologize for all of the above.
Fucking manners.
I’d make Luke apologize. That would be the right thing to do.
So why am I hesitating?
Her silhouette moves across the window and holds my attention. Her hair is down and falling over her shoulders. I stare at the shadow and hate that I’m picturing her from earlier. Those shocked brown eyes. Those parted lips. The heat in her cheeks. The undeniable shape of her body.
I hate myself for staring at her. I despise that I’m wondering what those lips feel like and how those nails of hers would feel raking down my back.
Sitting here and thinking these thoughts makes me no better than Mick.
And that’s why I start my car without knocking on her door . . . because fuck dropping myself to Mick’s level. Fuck Sidney Thorton. Fuck the girl who used to push my buttons as a teenager and who is hitting a whole hell of a lot more as a grown woman.
She’s the type of woman I steer clear of. Materialistic. Shallow. Selfish.
It doesn’t make me want her any less.
I pound my fist against the steering wheel because that isn’t fair. That’s the teenager she used to be. I have no clue what she’s like now.
Goddamn gorgeous is what she is.
Shit. I’ve changed leaps and bounds since then. A lovestruck twenty-year-old who was so busy with himself and the day-to-day he missed every sign that the mother of his son wasn’t planning to stick around.
How fair would it be for someone to judge me as that man for the rest of my life when now I know it’s the little things you have to pay attention to? The frustrated sighs. The lack of responses. The back facing me every night in bed when it used to be lips nuzzled against my neck and fingers linked with mine.
Christ. My hands grip the steering wheel as I hit the red light.
People change, Grayson Malone. Look at yourself.
So why am I having such a hard time believing Sidney can, too?
Because she’s trouble with a capital T.
That’s a fucking fact.
The light turns green, and I rev the engine a little harder than I should. So much for apologizing.
And so much for not thinking about her, either.