Chapter 7
Seven
Gray
Fuck, how much of a sick pervert does it make me that the befuddlement on Faye’s face when I ask her what we’re going to watch makes me want to kiss her.
She almost died last night, for fuck’s sake.
And yet the tiny crease between her eyebrows, the wide brown eyes…
Cute.
Really fucking cute.
Except, I can’t think about how cute Faye looks—
The only reason I’m here is to make sure she’s okay, that she’s settled and comfortable until her family comes in to take care of her.
I turn toward the TV, focus on the show…
For about two minutes before I realize it’s shit.
“You’re really watching this?” I ask.
“Um…” she says and her next words have me straightening and focusing more fully on her.
Because they’re laced with sass—and I sure as shit wasn’t expecting one Faye Sullivan to be sassy or sarcastic.
Sweet, yes. Gentle and kind, absolutely.
But all of that along with the hint of an attitude—a hint that well, hints at more than just attitude underneath the quiet—and I know…
I’m so totally fucked.
“It turns out there’s not a lot of options on hospital cable.”
Simple words.
But spoken tartly? And paired with a small smirk and dancing brown eyes?
Yup. So totally fucked.
Then she keeps talking, unwinding the ancient-looking remote from the bedrail and handing it over to me. “Want to try your luck at finding something better, hot shot?”
Oh fuck.
More tart. More smirking.
More danger.
“Or not,” she says and I realize I’ve been staring at her, not answering, same as I haven’t taken the remote from her, haven’t done my best to find something that isn’t the stupid ass game show I should have just sat here and watched in silence in the first place.
Sat here smoothing over my conscience, the nagging emotions that filled my last hours.
Worrying about her being here.
Alone.
“You don’t have to be here, Gray. I’m fine.” Her lips curve up into a smile, but I have the distinct notion that it’s fake.
And I hate that.
I don’t know why I hate the idea that she’s pretending with me, that she’s hiding parts of herself from me.
She’s my neighbor.
I know nothing about her.
But…maybe I want to?
“I think you should go,” she murmurs. “I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
Goddammit.
Now I feel like a dick.
I am exhausted. And I have a game tomorrow. I should go.
Visiting hours are over—something the nurse advised me of when I first came in. Shift change had occurred and no hockey fans I could win over with smiles and autographs were around. In fact, I had to sweet-talk my way in so I could come and make a mess of this conversation with Faye.
Christ. Why do I always fuck things up?
I grind my teeth together, shame rippling—
And watch her body tense on the bed.
She opens her mouth (and I know it’s to tell me to go again).
“I’ll find something better,” I blurt, snagging the remote and starting to click.
Spoiler alert: I don’t find anything better.
First, there’s like ten channels.
Second, there’s like ten channels, so for all my clicking, I don’t manage to drum up a great Liam Neeson or Jason Statham action flick.
Instead…I end up back on the game show.
Which, I find after about five more minutes, doesn’t actually suck.
It’s weirdly intriguing.
Is it the pressure that makes the answers so bad? Or should I really start worrying about the state of education in America?
Likely both.
There’s a loud buzz on the screen and I hold my breath as the other team finally gets a chance.
The number one answer is still not up on the board.
And it’s not like the category is difficult.
I glance at Faye, see she’s watching as avidly as I am. “Is not one person on either of these teams unable to come up with tent?”
“I thought you didn’t like this show,” she says quietly, barely any rasp in the words, though she’s still pale and the dark circles under her eyes are intense.
I clench my hand at my side, resisting the urge to brush my thumb over the spots marring her skin.
“The category is Things You Bring on a Camping Trip,” I point out.
“I’m not saying I wouldn’t say tent.” Her lips twitch. “I’m just saying that if the show sucked, you wouldn’t be invested in it after five minutes.”
“So you’re a Family Feud fan?”
“I’m a whatever’s on TV or hot on social media at the moment fan.
And today with my ten hospital channels, that’s Family Feud.
” Her eyes flick to the TV screen at the sound of another buzz.
“For the record, I would have said tent, sleeping bag, and flashlight instead of portable latrine, matches, and bug spray.” One slender shoulder lifts and drops.
“Though I can see the merits of all three of those.”
“I’ll point out that matches was the only one of those guesses to make it in the top five.”
“That’s because the number four answer is pillow.” There’s that sass again, the adorable little smirk that has a hand reaching into my chest and wrapping around my heart.
Or maybe it’s skipped my chest all together and gone straight for my cock instead.
Either. Both.
I lean closer, hand settling on the bed near her hip. Not touching her, but giving in to the urge to almost touch, thus soothing the ache inside me.
“A pillow?” I murmur. “Do I need to remind you that the category is things you bring camping?”
“Yup. And you need somewhere to rest your head when you sleep in that sleeping bag, inside that tent at night.”
“I’m not sure that’s a necessity.”
“They’re not saying it’s a necessity…necessarily. The point of this game is to discern what one hundred people would say they’d bring camping with them.”
I stare at her.
She stares back then lifts her brows in challenge.
Fuck.
“Touché, baby,” I say softly, leaning a little closer.
Her inhale is sharp and fuck if my fingers don’t shift of their own accord, brushing lightly against her side.
Another rough inhale.
God, I’d love to see her do that naked.
“Your lungs are better,” I say softly. “How about the rest of the bumps and bruises and”—I gently tap the splint on her left wrist—“this bad boy?”
“I’m fine.”
Why do I have the feeling that she would say the same thing, even if she hadn’t just survived a house fire with minimal injuries? Even if she wasn’t fine?
“Faye,” I murmur. “You don’t have to lie to me.”
“No offense,” she replies quietly. “Considering you saved me and all, but I don’t really know you.”
I want to know her.
I’m desperate for it, salivating like a dog waiting for his dinner bowl to be filled.
“We can change that,” I point out.
“By bonding over game shows?”
“By passing the time and talking. You’ve been my neighbor for a couple of years now and I barely know more than your name and the fact that you work from home.”
“There’s nothing to really know,” she says. “I do work from home and I’m boring. I like staying in and reading or watching TV or having my friends over.”
“I like staying in too,” I tell her.
“You do?”
“Yup.” I stroke my fingers over the slender curve of her hip again. “My drugs of choice are cheesy action flicks and a giant tub of popcorn.”
“I make a really great caramel popcorn.”
“Yeah?”
A nod. “Yeah.”
“Can I tempt you into making it for me?”
Can I tempt you into doing other things for me?
Her cheeks go pink, as though she’s plucked the thought from my mind. “I was going to make you banana bread as a thanks for saving me.”
Sweet, adorable, tempting Faye in the kitchen wearing just an apron and baking for me.
Yeah, I know exactly what I’ll be thinking about as I stroke myself to sleep tonight.
“I wouldn’t turn down either,” I tell her, daring to stroke her hip again.
She shifts marginally, leaning into my touch, and swear to fuck, I feel that lean in my soul. “I’ll make both then,” she whispers.
“Deal.”
We fall silent, the show still playing behind us, but I can’t bring myself to focus on it. Not when Faye is right in front of me.
“You work from home doing what?”
Her expression is…interesting. It goes from embarrassed to recalcitrant in under a second.
And I feel my interest in her increasing exponentially.
Fuck.
“What do you do, baby?”
“I’m a writer.”
Everything in me stills because that’s…perfect.
Everything about her screams author—the cute little skirts she wears, the blouses, the glasses (though she’s not wearing them right now because they were lost in a fucking fire).
But it’s more than the outside—it’s her quick wit and quiet, observing nature.
Cataloguing everything and storing it away to use later.
Yeah, I can totally see her writing some sort of cozy mystery or a thriller, diving deep into the plot and getting lost in her characters.
“What kind of books do you write?”
Her chin comes up, the recalcitrance increasing by an order of magnitude. “Romance novels.”
My brows fly up. “Romance novels?”
“That’s what I said.” It’s a pert rejoinder.
“Wow. Faye Sullivan is a secret romance novelist.”
“It’s not a secret.”
“Then why am I just finding out about it?”
“Because we’ve barely spoken?”
She has a point, but I’m enjoying teasing her too much to acknowledge it.
“Wow,” I say instead.
“What? You think your shy, homebody of a neighbor doesn’t know anything about love?”
“No,” I tell her, my teasing fading as I think about what my love life has looked like for the last years. “I think that writing about love is one of the hardest things a writer can do.”
Her face smooths out. “What?”
“Love is universal and complicated and one of the things people want most in the world. To be able to write about it and make it feel sincere, make it something that readers want to root for has to be tough.”
“I—” She swallows and shakes her head. “I guess I never thought about it that way.”
She’s befuddled again, and it’s fucking cute.
And soft, her eyes coming back to mine, her words quiet. “Thank you for saying it that way instead of reacting how people normally react.”
It’s dangerous how easy it is to talk to her, dangerous how much I want to know every part of her. Yet, I find I’m unable to not touch her, so I stroke my fingers along her side again. “How do people normally react?”
She sighs. “By asking if I try out my sex scenes before I write them. Or asking me if writing love stories is just a little hobby and one day if I’ll write real books.”
“Seriously?”
“Unfortunately, I am.”
I scowl. “That’s bullshit.”
“Maybe so, but that’s the world we live in right now.
” She exhales again. “I provide for myself. I pay my bills. I do something I love, but I think because most romance books are written by women for women, they’re still seen as less.
” Her nose wrinkles. “Gotta love that my job writing fiction mirrors the real world sometimes.”
“That sucks.”
“I’m lucky to do what I love,” she says. “So, I’m not complaining.” Her lips curve up into a self-deprecating smile. “Or not much, anyway.”
“I get it,” I tell her and fuck if my hand doesn’t shift of its own volition again, this time tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, the silky strand almost tempting me into stroking. “My job is great, but sometimes people judge it from the outside, turn it into something it isn’t.”
“I could see that.”
I nod, give in to the urge to stroke, gently running my fingers through her hair.
“Do you like it?” she asks quietly. “Does hockey feed your soul?”
“It does,” I murmur. “So much so I can’t imagine doing anything else. I know everyone says it’s just a game, but the truth is, it’s the only place I’ve ever belonged. Losing it would mean losing the only family I have left.”
“Your parents?”
“Alive,” I say softly. “Just not at all interested in their son.”
Her eyes go sad. “I’m sorry.” But before I can say it’s okay, she says, “But I’m happy you get to do something you love.”
“Me too.”
Her lips twitch, curling up the slightest bit at the edges, cutting through my guilt for being here, for invading, for allowing myself closer when I should be pulling back. “Did you know I’ve written a hockey romance series?”
My brows fly up. “That’s a thing?”
She grins and fuck it’s pretty. “Oh yeah, it’s a thing. A big thing.”
The pull toward her intensifies, searing into me, and it’s so intense that it’s hard to breathe, to think.
All I can do is feel.
And right on the heels of that, is the need to yank myself back into reality.
“When’s your family coming by to take care of you?”
It’s an abrupt question, almost harsh.
Her expression clears, going completely blank, any of the teasing in her smile, her eyes disappearing like a puff of smoke.
And I know I’ve fucked up.
I just don’t know how big.