Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
GRAYSON
“All I’m saying is that I could’ve driven,” Flic mutters from the leather seat beside me, arms folded, glowering out the window as Hunter takes the turning off the highway to Oakwood Ranch.
I gesture toward the front seat. “But if you’d driven, Hunter wouldn’t have gotten to see these incredible views.”
My driver gives a nod of agreement as Flic huffs, like agreeing with me would give her hives, but her gaze drifts to the window and the views anyway.
The long road stretches ahead, cutting through blankets of untouched snow.
We turn a corner and a picture-perfect ranch house comes into view.
To the right of the ranch house, a red barn stands tall, its open doors revealing a row of stalls—horses leaning their heads curiously over the half-doors like a welcoming committee. Maybe the only one I’m going to get.
The reinforcements Flic mentioned at the sponsors luncheon apparently come in the shape of the Sullivan family.
Their public support of me would go a long way to showing the fans I’m not the worst human being on earth.
But after the reserved greeting from Mama in Buffalo, and the photo that followed of me taking a call, I’m not sure what kind of welcome I’m about to receive.
My gaze catches on paddock fences, half hidden by white, glistening with ice under the winter sun.
For years, I didn’t see snow. Dubai was all heat and glare and sun that baked you alive, sand that got into everything.
Singapore was humidity that clung to your skin like a second shirt.
Hong Kong was noise and neon and monsoon rains.
South America, warm winds and dust. In Europe, sure, I saw a polite dusting of snow now and then, but it melted in hours.
And in New York, snow means gridlock and black sludge.
I shoot Flic a glance, unable to help myself. “Besides, I’ve seen how fierce you are behind the bar. I’m not sure I’m ready to see what you’re like behind the wheel.”
She laughs, the sound unexpected and bright.
“Are you suggesting I get road rage?” she demands.
I don’t fight the smile tugging at my mouth. “Do I need to answer that?”
She scoffs. “Fine. But only when I get stuck behind idiot drivers. That’s not my fault.”
I chuckle, and Flic moves like she’s about to poke me in retaliation, but I catch her wrist mid-air. Heat against my palm. Her skin soft. My heart pounds. I let go fast and she snatches her hand back, rolling her eyes so hard it’s a miracle she doesn’t sprain something. What the hell was that?
Something has eased between us this week.
Her speech about needing to give more of myself hit hard, and I’m trying, even when my commitments in New York feel like a weight around my neck.
In return, Flic’s anger has softened. She’s trying harder, too.
But I can’t allow myself to relax. Flic is as beautiful as she is fierce.
But I’ve stayed away from women for five years for a reason.
Especially sexy as hell women with perfect asses who see past my suit and my name.
Like Flic is starting to. Like I thought Ana had.
Ana was so fun at first. We met in a café in Paris six months before I moved back to New York. The moment she heard my American accent, she lit up.
Is that New York I hear?
I grinned in surprise at her American accent. Yes.
I’m from Philadelphia.
She grabbed my sleeve and dragged me to her table like we were old friends, and we traded stories about what we missed from home—for me it was weak-ass coffee served in tall cups that didn’t feel like one sip would give you a heart attack. For Ana, it was pancakes with bacon and maple syrup.
It was easy to get caught up in her warmth when I was with her.
She made me feel like I was her whole universe.
But even in that first meeting, I saw the vulnerability in her kohled eyes.
I knew there was more to her story. I just didn’t know how bad it was.
And if I’d known why she was really in Paris—the demons she was running from—I would’ve run, too. For her sake as much as mine.
Hunter slows the car, drawing me back to the present as he parks beside a row of three trucks. He reaches for the door, but I’m faster.
“Stay in the warmth,” I tell him, stepping into air so cold it feels like it’s biting at my lungs. But it’s fresh, like breathing straight from the top of a mountain. “I’ll give you a call later when we’re ready to go.”
I circle the car and open the door for Flic just as a yellow retriever comes barreling toward us, ears flapping, tail wagging so hard his whole body wobbles. Flic grins, and God help me, I feel it again. That spark. That want. The one I’m not supposed to feel at all.
“Buck.” Flic crouches to fuss the dog as I pull our thick coats from the trunk. I hold hers out, waiting while she straightens and slips her arms through the sleeves before she freezes solid.
“Come on,” she says, tugging lightly at my wrist as I stroke Buck. “Everyone’s waiting.”
“And you’re sure they’re OK with me coming here today?” I ask.
“Trust me. If I wanted them to kill you, you’d be dead already.”
I laugh. “Now I feel totally reassured.”
Flic all but drags me toward the back door of the ranch house, Buck bouncing around us.
The door swings open, and a blast of warm air hits, rich with the smell of roasting meat, herbs, and something buttery.
Inside, the kitchen is big enough to host a wedding reception.
Counters full of dishes, steam rising from platters on the long farmhouse table where the Sullivan family crowd together.
I spot Serena first, smiling up at Chase as she tucks herself into the crook of his arm and he pulls her close.
There’s Jake and Harper too, and Mama. The dark blonde with the huge belly must be Flic’s best friend, Izzy.
Which makes the hulk-like dark-haired rancher with the beard Dylan.
The back door thuds shut behind us, and the room goes pin-drop silent.
Every head turns all at once and stares.
I’ve stood in boardrooms and talked down frustrated investors.
I walked into my father’s office and told him I was leaving New York, refusing to take my place beside him at Ashborne Holdings.
And all those times felt less like walking into a lion’s den than this.
Every face in this room stares at me with open, unfiltered suspicion.
All three Sullivan brothers look ready to murder me.
I work out every day. I stay fit. I lift weights.
I could hold my own against one man in this room.
But Dylan, Jake, and Chase have built entire careers on facing down three-hundred-pound men whose sole job is to take them out. All three together, I’ve got no chance.
“Hi,” I say with what I hope is a friendly smile.
They continue staring. Hard, unblinking, murderously intense. Then Dylan steps forward, jaw set. “Get out of my house and the hell off my ranch, Ashborne.”
Disappointment pinches, but not surprise.
A part of me knows I’ve earned their suspicion.
“I apologize,” I say, raising my hands in the universal sign for peace.
The apology is genuine, but I keep my head high.
These men might be able to snap me in half, but I’m not the type to cower. Not now. Not ever.
And that’s when the laughter erupts. It’s loud and raucous and bounces off the walls. A grin splits Chase’s face as I take a steadying breath, unsure whether to laugh alongside them or throw them several expletives. “Told you he’d fall for it.”
Jake shoots a victorious look to Mama, who’s laughing behind a napkin. “You owe me twenty bucks.”
I side-eye Flic. She has the decency to be biting back her laughter. Barely.
Dylan is the first to pull himself together. Stepping forward and extending his hand. “Relax, Ashborne. The jury’s still out, but Flic vouches for you, so we’re giving you a chance.”
Before I can reply, a blonde-haired girl skids into the kitchen, socks sliding across the hardwood.
“Is lunch ready? What’s so funny? Mom, when is the devil in the shiny suit getting here?” she asks, right as her gaze lands on me and her mouth drops into a perfect, horrified O.
The room explodes again, and Flic groans into her hands in a way that tells me “the devil in the suit” came from her. I store it away for later and smile at the girl.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m Grayson.”
“This is Madison—Mad,” Flic says, sweeping the girl into a hug.
Mad studies me with the scrutiny of a tiny detective. “He doesn’t look like a devil,” she announces to the room.
I shrug off my thick coat and glance down at my jeans and dark sweater. “I leave my horns at home on Thursdays,” I quip.
That earns a fresh round of laughter, and the last of the tension drains from the room.
Izzy motions for Mad to come over and waves us all to sit.
A minute later, I’m wedged onto a wooden bench with Flic on one side and Mama on the other, Harper and Jake settled opposite, and a full plate of food in front of me.
Lunch is loud and filled with laughter, the food comforting and delicious.
Roast meat, buttery potatoes, fresh-baked bread.
The kind of home-cooking I almost never get.
As Mama spoons a second helping of potatoes onto my plate, I find myself thinking how I wouldn’t trade this for whatever masterpiece the world’s top chef could put in front of me.
Between mouthfuls, the family talks about Saturday’s game in Baltimore. “The Grimriders are the number one seed,” Flic says. “They barely lost a game this season. Buffalo was hard. Baltimore will be something else.”
“They’ve got weaknesses, though,” Jake says. “We’ve been studying the tape, and their linebackers have a tendency to over-pursue. They go too wide and jump routes. They’re aggressive, but they don’t always adjust well.”