Chapter 3
Jasmine
When I return to the kitchen, the first thing I notice is how the light filters through the big windows, bouncing off the polished counters, catching the silver strands of Mr. Grayson’s hair.
He’s sitting at the dining table.
The omelet’s gone. The muffin’s reduced to crumbs. And in his hand is one of my mugs—the bright yellow one with the fat little bee on it.
He always pretends not to notice that he likes to drink his coffee from it every morning. The same way that he pretends he isn’t aware of me.
I won’t believe that anymore.
Mr. Grayson may sidestep emotions, default to charm when things get complicated, but at least he’s never hidden himself from me.
He must’ve showered while I was with Sophie.
Now he’s dressed in a dark navy suit, crisp white shirt open just enough at the collar to tease. Every part of him radiates control, power, restraint. He’s the embodiment of every powerful, sexy, alpha hero I’ve ever narrated.
I run a hand over my belly, suddenly aware of how grubby I feel in contrast. My tank clings to my ribs. My scalp’s still damp from the steam of Sophie’s shower, and my hands smell like eucalyptus oil.
I cross the room slowly, trying to smooth my hair, hyperaware of the film of sweat at the back of my knees.
My skin tingles as he beckons me. He’s placed my plate at the opposite end of the table. The far end.
A message to put me in my place, and it stings.
For a second, I falter. My heart drops.
Something of the fighter I’ve always been whispers, why did he feel the need to put distance between us?
He’s never done it before.
I swallow my doubts, smile broadly, and make my way to him. “Sophie wants to sleep in,” I say as I slide into the chair. “A tension headache. I gave her a quick head massage.”
He nods. “Does she need anything?”
“Nope. She’ll nap another hour or so.”
His voice is quiet. “Thank you.”
I blink.
He adds, “For everything you do.”
The words land too softly to be rehearsed, yet there’s something deeper beneath them that I can’t reach.
I give a half-smile. Clearly, he’s decided to remind me of our respective roles and boundaries. “You don’t have to say it every morning, noon, and night, Mr. Grayson.”
“But I mean it,” he says, mouth settling into a stubborn line.
I pick up the slice of bread and bite into it, just to stop myself from glaring. Then I realize by the really shoddy job of jelly-spreading that he made fresh toast for me. The idea of Mr. Grayson figuring out the toaster to make me toast fills me with giddy joy.
“You said you wanted something from me,” he says, coming straight to the point. “Something to do with your cousin’s wedding?”
I nod, make a big deal of chewing, wipe my mouth with a napkin—all the while forming and discarding words. “Yeah.” I brace my arms on the table. “I need you to be my date to the wedding reception.” I let the words hang between us for long seconds before I add, “Like a fake plus one, I mean.”
He stills, his grey eyes locked on me. Tension spreads through his shoulders.
It’s clear I’ve stunned him with my proposition. Is it so out of the realm of possibility that I want his company? Or is it that he can’t stand mine?
He rubs a thumb over his jaw. “Isn’t there someone else you’d rather go with? Someone your age?”
“No,” I say simply. “There isn’t.” I push the plate noisily and fold my arms on the smooth grain. “I don’t like boys my age.”
There’s a curious glint in his eyes I want to feed and fuel. “Men, you mean?”
I shrug, a flutter of excitement dancing in my belly. “Most of them act like immature, selfish boys, so I can’t make the distinction. And I’ve never met one that remotely tempts me.”
It’s true, though I can’t clarify that he’s the reason I don’t even register men.
None of them could hold a candle to Mr. Grayson anyway.
My sexuality has been firmly stamped with his name, not that I’ve done anything but imprint him into my voice and heart every time I narrate a new erotic romance.
He taps a circle around the coffee mug, and I get the sense he’s fighting himself. “Not even a single date?”
Every inch of me screams with triumph at the question—clearly against his better instincts. I take a long breath and release it, clasping my chin in a dreamy pose. “Not even for a cup of coffee. You know how much of a ho I am for good coffee.”
He blinks but doesn’t say anything. The tapping circles on the wood continue, growing in intensity, mirroring my heartbeat.
I continue, a little shocked at my own slyness. “Sophie keeps threatening to make me a Never Been Kissed T-shirt, like that old romcom.”
This time there’s no doubting the curiosity that dawns in those silver-grey eyes. “You have never been kissed,” he says, before cutting his gaze away.
In profile, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows is noticeable. That delicate thread between us buzzes.
“I know, I’m like the biggest walking cliché at my age, but I’m waiting for someone special to offload my—”
The yellow fat-bee mug rattles hard on the table, cutting me off.
Heat climbs up my neck and cheeks.
Did I go too far? Was I too obvious with the strategic TMI?
Fear spikes in my throat and I try to swallow past it. I can’t pedal back now, not even to retain the status quo. “Mr. Grayson, I—”
“We’re going dangerously off topic, little bird,” he says, a gruff edge to his tone.
I slump back in the chair as relief and fresh warmth chase away the fear. It’s the name he coined for me years ago, although he hasn’t used it in a while.
“Right,” I say, pasting a sheepish smile.
It’s damned hard being this take-charge woman when all I want is to crawl into his lap and let him have his way with me.
“Sorry. You’re such a good listener.” I play with the ends of my braid.
“I guess I got carried away, looking for some old-fashioned wisdom. You are of a different generation, after all,” I add, sounding just ditzy enough.
A laugh barrels out of him. It’s loud and hearty and so sudden I nearly fall out of my chair.
When I look up, breath suspended, his head’s thrown back, the corded veins in his neck stretched tight. The edges of his eyes crinkle and laugh lines carve across his sharp features.
I stare helplessly, my body buffeted by the beautiful sound of his laughter.
I want to make him laugh like this, always.
“You and your honesty, Jasmine… For a second there, I almost forgot why I like you so much.”
His admission makes my heart inflate to ten times its size, even as guilt pricks me too.
“Don’t think it’s a good idea for me to come—”
“Wait, there’s more,” I say, interrupting him.
Then I barrel forward with the half-truth, half-lie I prepared while massaging Sophie’s head.
“My stepfather Clive will be at the reception. I want to talk to him about Mom’s estate.
Either he shuts me down completely or uses legal jargon to confuse me.
I could use someone like you on my side. ”
His brow clears. For a second, I think I see disappointment in those grey eyes, but what the hell do I know? Even that flicker of maybe-disappointment gives way to relief fast enough that my guilt disappears.
It is a valid concern that Clive’s been dodging me about my mom’s estate. But there’s no real urgency to address the issue at Sonia’s wedding reception.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me he’s still giving you trouble?” Mr. Grayson says, frowning. “It’s been nearly four years.”
I shrug. “He’s afraid I’ll ask for something from the condo sale. I don’t want his money, just a few things from her personal stuff. So instead of letting me clarify, he fobs me off every few months.”
“You should ask for the whole damn condo. That was your home.”
I shake my head. “They were married for eight years, and I know he paid into the mortgage too. The legal ramifications are too much for me to handle.”
“You ask for too little, Jasmine,” he says, looking more than put out on my behalf. A thoughtful glint enters his eyes as he considers me. “Not just of him but everyone.”
Does he mean himself? If I ask him to kiss me, will he do it? If I go to my knees and ask to be his, will he let me surrender? Will he let himself have me?
“That way, I can manage my expectations,” I say, my tone softened by the direction of my thoughts. Then, because I can’t afford to get lost in this fantasy I want of him—in him—I remind myself that at the end of it, I’ll still lose him.
“No one can hurt me if I don’t expect too much,” I say into the silence.
His mouth flattens. “You’re too young for such a cynical perspective. I don’t like it.”
The last is such a powerful, arrogant CEO thing to say that I smile. “Want to rearrange the world for me, Mr. Grayson?” I tease.
His head cocks forward, and for a second, I’m caught in the breathless intensity of his gaze. “Where do you want me to start, little bird?”
My breath leaves me, turning me into a trembling mass of desire. I rush in before he reminds me it’s just a joke. “Will you come to the wedding reception as my plus one?”
He leans back slightly, eyes narrowing, as if I trapped him without his notice. “What exactly does this constitute? Outside straightening your douchey stepfather?”
My heart thuds, but I speak slowly, trying to make it sound boring and casual. “We dress up. Drive to Whidbey Island. Greet the couple. Pose for pics. Talk to Clive. Eat cake. Leave.”
His eyes are unreadable as they search mine. “This is important to you?”
I bite my lip before whispering, “Would mean the whole world to me.”
The silence stretches. I study his face, every small shift, every clench of his jaw.
He swears under his breath. Then finally, “Only just this once, Jasmine.” He bites out every word, as if he needs the world to stand witness to his resolve and his good intentions.
I swallow and nod.
“Fine. I’ll take you.”
My heart thuds. Somehow, I manage not to leap across the table and tackle him, to hide the violent trembling in my belly. I mumble, “Thank you, Mr. Grayson.”
And hope like hell that for a little while this weekend, I can call him mine.