Chapter 32 Layla
Layla
Grady’s house is cute.
Cottagey. Exactly the type of place I envisioned him in: the kind of place where you sit around in plaid flannel and add logs to the fire, that has log timbers on the inside and out.
My stomach flips for three different reasons: dating-a-new-guy nerves, the fact that I’m at his house and we’re totally alone, and Hayes’s random text that has thrown me a curveball.
“It doesn’t mean anything, Layla,” I tell myself, sliding my cell into the back pocket of my jeans as I stand on Grady’s porch and knock on his door. “If he gave a shit, it wouldn’t be days between messages.”
Hmph.
And that’s that.
The door opens, and I was right; he’s wearing a plaid flannel, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His smile is easy as he stands there looking down at me as if he hasn’t spent the entire afternoon overthinking this invitation the same way I have.
“Hey,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “You made it.”
“I did. Didn’t take me long either.”
“Good. Come on in and make yourself comfortable.”
I brush past him and enter, gazing around. Hardwood floors. Leather couch. Tweed accent chairs. Vintage kitschy knickknacks. Honestly, I’m shocked by how preppy it is, straight out of a Ralph Lauren catalog, as if it was decorated by a professional.
“Your place is beautiful.”
“Thanks. My sister is a designer. I take no credit for this.”
A sister. I file that information away.
“Ahh. My best friend, Faith, is a designer too.”
Music hums low from somewhere in the living room, and lamps light the room. Dim. Cozy, lit in part by the fire glowing in the massive fieldstone fireplace that’s the center of the living room.
“Wine?” Grady asks, guiding me toward the kitchen.
“Please.”
His kitchen is warm wood and concrete counters, with a big, scarred butcher block island. He has two place settings at one end already waiting, while a pot of water boils and a pan of pancetta crackles next to it on the stove top. It smells delicious.
Grady sets a wineglass in front of me and begins pouring. The dark burgundy liquid has my mouth watering. “So. Are you hungry?”
How could he tell? “Is it that obvious?”
My stomach growls as I reach for the wine stem, lifting the glass and swirling it. “Mmm. This is good.”
“It is.” He pours himself a glass. “Got it on a trip once.”
“Fancy.” I smile at him. “Do you like traveling?”
He nods. “I do, when I choose to and not when it’s a chore—like for work. I’m really looking for a partner who wants to travel with me? I’m tired of seeing cool shit by myself.”
My heart speeds up.
“Same,” I say, although truth be told, traveling isn’t high on my to-do list. I’d rather have kids and stay home and decorate for holidays and make lunches and fuss during bath time.
Not that you can’t travel and be a mom, but you get what I mean.
It’s not easy doing both, and like—the closest airport is a 1. 5-hour drive.
Guh, what am I saying?
I sip the wine. Focus on Grady’s eyes, the kindness there. Remind myself that this—this kitchen, this table set with intention to impress me—is real, and Hayes was nothing but a daydream.
“Okay,” he says, giving the pancetta a poke with a wooden spoon. “Serious question first: What’s your go-to comfort movie?”
“Oh this answer is so easy.” I don’t have to think. “It’s an old one but a classic: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. I am Andie Anderson, she is me.”
He twirls pasta onto two plates, adds the pancetta on top, then sets them at our place settings. “My go-to is always Step Brothers. Don’t ask me why, but it gets better and better every time I watch it.”
That movie is so dumb, but I don’t tell him this.
“Follow-up: If this carbonara isn’t a panty dropper, I expect you to tell me.’”
I laugh, the knot in my body loosening up, getting more comfortable with him. “I mean, won’t you know it’s not a panty dropper when I’m not fawning all over you and dropping my panties?”
But Grady knows what he’s doing. The first bite has me groaning.
And while I’m salivating over his carbonara, he tells me about his niece’s piano recital and how she kept peeking over at him and giggling, causing her to have to start her song from the beginning four times.
I tell him about the man in town who filed a complaint on his neighbor because once the neighbor put up a new fence, he could no longer see over it.
Wine warms my cheeks. I’m somewhere pleasantly between brave and relaxed and feeling good.
“Tell me about your last relationship,” I say, wanting to know more about his love languages and what he’s looking for—and not looking for.
“She was a city girl,” he says definitively. “And so, when I bought the cottage, she was vehemently against it.” Grady pauses. “When I say ‘city girl,’ I mean . . . she considers this cabin roughing it and would rather stay in a hotel.”
I gaze at my surroundings, at the beautiful, polished wood and designer rustic furniture and the decorations that look like they could be in a showroom.
“The sex was good, but otherwise we had very little in common.” He takes a drink of wine. “We met through friends, and dating in the city is easy because it’s dinners and parties and . . .” He shrugs. “It wasn’t reality.”
Wasn’t reality.
I raise a glass. “Cheers to that.”
He catches me smiling above the brim of my wineglass as I, too, take a sip. “What?”
“This is nice,” I say, embarrassed by how earnest it sounds.
“It is,” he agrees, like he doesn’t need to qualify it. Then: “You want more?”
I do.
We continue eating, forkfuls stolen from each other’s plates even though our plates are the same, fire in the next room crackling, and the music changes to something older, slower.
“Okay,” he says, wiping his hands on a napkin. “My turn to be honest: I’m a tiny bit tipsy.”
“Same.” I hold my fingers a fraction apart. “Like this much.”
“Have you ever danced in a kitchen?” he asks, almost shyly.
“I have never. But I’m willing to dance in yours, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He stands, pushes back his stool, and offers his hand like it’s not a big deal. Maybe it isn’t to him, but it is to me. So I slide off my stool and slide my palm into his.
So different from Hayes in a more rugged, mountain-man kind of way.
Grady’s smile has me smiling back. His hands bracket my waist and tug me in—my fingers climbing his shoulders, the flannel soft under my touch, the man underneath decidedly not.
He smells like soap and bourbon and cinnamon from the dessert we haven’t started yet . . .
He’s so close.
“You’re good at this,” I say, pretending my pulse isn’t in my mouth.
“At dancing?”
“Mm-hmm. I don’t do this enough.”
He hums low in his chest. “I don’t remember even dancing at weddings.”
The space between us shrinks a tad. I press closer. He presses closer. My knuckles brush the hair at his neck, and a shiver trips down his spine like I’ve found a switch. He feels me feel it; his hands tighten around my waist. An inevitable pull . . .
The song ends. Another begins.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “Can I—” He gestures, the tiniest flicker toward my face. “If it’s okay.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, pulse in my mouth. Please do.
I want to see what it feels like kissing someone else.
Take away the memories of him.
Grady kisses me—gentle first, like he’s testing a lake with his toes. His mouth is warm and patient and then not patient at all, the kind of kiss that learns you quick and then decides to graduate early.
Damn.
I open for him on a startled sound I don’t mean to make, and the kiss deepens—lazy turns hungry, sweet turns sinfully curious. Grady tilts his head, and I swear I feel it in my spine. My hands end up in his shirt, fingers curling in flannel, tugging him closer because why the hell not?
Hayes is nowhere to be seen, Is He?
No.
God, Grady is warm. Tastes like red wine.
When he groans, the sound rockets straight to my vagina. I step forward until his back is against the counter without meaning to, laughter catching in my throat and dissolving when he kisses me; he didn’t plan on me being bold, but he’s absolutely here for it.
Excited.
Hopeful.
I didn’t expect this. Not with him, not tonight, not while the ghost of someone else clings to the edges of my thoughts. I’m desperate now to get the ghost of Hayes out of my mind, and Grady’s kisses are the perfect way to do it.
More, more, more . . .
“Trying real hard not to rush,” he admits, forehead to mine. “But you’re making that difficult.”
Heat nips at my skin. “A little difficult is fine.”
He lifts me onto the counter with a little gasp of surprise from both of us, and I hook my knees around him without thinking, pulling him in, letting the new angle turn sparks into heat.
His hands are big and strong at my waist, thumbs stroking juuust under my sweater, testing future territory. I fist the front of his flannel and pull him closer until there’s no polite space left.
“I like your hands there,” I whisper.
“Here?” He slides them higher along my ribs.
“Yes.” The word is a breathless wisp of permission.
“I keep thinking about how we only met this morning,” he says, kissing the corner of my mouth like it’s fragile. “And now I’ve got you on my counter.”
“Weird coincidence—I was thinking the same thing.”
He drags his mouth along my throat, and I tip my head, offering. The scrape of his stubble, the careful press of his teeth, the slow stroke of his thumbs . . .
I rock forward, chasing the pressure, trying to push memories of Hayes out of my mind when Grady swears softly, forehead tipping to mine as we find a slow, filthy rhythm that’s nothing but friction and want and the wet sound of our mouths.
Every place he touches feels new; every place he hasn’t touched yet is curious.
There’s hope for me, yet . . .
Still. Part of me wonders why I’m here.
Part of me wonders what Hayes is doing.
And Benny.
“You’re driving me crazy,” Grady says, voice shredded. “I’m trying so hard to make a good impression.”
No worries. “You’re being such a gentleman.”
“Am I?” He smiles against my lips. “Because all I can think about is touching you.”
“Less thinking. More doing.”
I need to know—for science.
His palm drifts under my sweater, heat to heat, dragging the fabric up my ribs, palm cupping me through the lace of my bra—teasing me—thumb brushing over the hardened peak of my nipple till I gasp and arch into his hand. Grady’s fingers ease beneath the thin lace, skin on skin, beneath my shirt.
“You’re unreal.”
“You’re very real,” I murmur, sliding a hand under his shirt to rake my nails lightly down his back. Goose bumps chase my touch.
We kiss and breathe and move—nothing but hands and heat and the soft, obscene sound of fabric shifting. He doesn’t rush it; he checks in with his eyes, with his touch. When I start to chase more, he steadies us, kisses me softer until the urgency melts into a deep, delicious throb.
Hope blossoms wide open.
I can do this.
I can get over Hayes, and I’m starting right now.