Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
FLIC
SONIA: Before you ask, everything is still completely fine!
The jet rumbles beneath my feet as it taxis down the runway, Baltimore shrinking behind us in a smear of concrete and weak winter light.
The late-afternoon sun is a pale coin in the sky, barely touching the frosty ground.
But the plane is warm, and I find myself getting cozy in my seat, feeling comfortable despite the insane level of luxury I’ll never get used to.
Grayson sits across from me in the lounge area. The edges of his lips lift into a smirk. “I had Nicholas disable the buttons on your chair, by the way. I didn’t want you hitting eject instead of the overhead light.”
“If the seats had eject buttons, I’d have pressed yours.”
He laughs. The air between us feels lighter since our conversation in the car. “I can believe it.”
His phone rings, and he glances at the screen with a mix of joy and worry. He shoots me an apologetic look. “Sorry. I need to take this. Helena, what’s up?”
I watch him listen to his sister’s reply. Watch his entire being shift. Any sign of the relaxed version of Grayson vanishes. His shoulders go rigid. His jaw hardens. Even his voice changes, flattening into something controlled.
After a minute, he speaks. “It’s fine. I’ll be there.”
He ends the call and deep exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at me, like he’s deciding how much truth he can share without breaking whatever rules he’s got stamped in concrete in that head of his.
Eventually he asks: “Are you in a rush to get back to The Hay Barn?”
I’m about to say yes, because of course I need to get back.
But then I stop myself. I think of Sonia’s last message and how solid she’s been this week.
She treats the bar and everyone in it with respect.
Like it matters. And the truth is, I was only messaging her because trusting anyone with my bar feels like letting go in a way I’m not ready for.
But Sonia is due to close tonight. She’s not expecting me and she doesn’t need me.
I shake my head in answer. “No. Sonia’s handling everything. Why?”
Grayson’s expression shifts. I can’t tell if it’s relief or trepidation. “I’m needed in New York. It’s a little over an hour away. I wondered if you’d mind if we detoured. My father has called a last-minute board meeting for Ashborne Holdings. If we head straight there, I can make it.”
I don’t know much about this level of business, but I still frown. “On a Saturday?”
“It’s whenever my father decides to call them. Usually when he thinks the people who’ll vote against him can’t make it.”
“And you’re one of those people?” I ask, remembering what Grayson told me about his return to New York and wanting to keep an eye on his father.
“Yes.”
“Then we should go,” I say, surprising myself. “I can catch a normal flight from New York, right? It’s no big deal.”
“I’ll only be a few hours. If you’re happy to wait.”
I study him for a moment, seeing the tension in his shoulders. “Even better,” I say lightly. “Let’s go to New York.”
Relief crosses his features before it’s quickly buried beneath control. He stands and moves through the cabin, long strides, disappearing to talk to the copilot.
When he returns a minute later, whatever storm is raging inside him is fully formed. Tension radiates from him, rolling off his shoulders and crackling in the air. He looks like a man arming himself for a war no one else can see.
He stops in front of me, eyes dark, unreadable. “Thank you,” he says quietly. And there it is again. The wall. Polite and impenetrable.
Frustration sparks through me. Why does he keep doing this? Keep stepping close then backing away? What’s he scared of? Or does he just not feel the same want I do? That want to get under his skin—and maybe more…?
His phone buzzes again. He checks it, frowning. Deeper this time.
“Another problem?” I ask.
He hesitates. “My father is inviting me to family dinner tonight,” he says carefully. “With you.”
I stare at him. “How does your father know who I am?”
Grayson’s mouth twists into a grimace. “It’s a hobby of his. Keeping an eye on mine and Helena’s lives and the people we spend time with.”
Grayson’s reply makes me wonder if he isn’t guarded because he’s keeping himself back from me.
Maybe he’s guarded because he’s been brought up to believe he has to be.
And because he’s carrying his own business, and still a part of his father’s empire, and now he has the Stormhawks, too.
This is a man being pulled in too many directions with no one to share the load.
“I’m happy to go, if you want me there,” I say.
A silence draws out. “Flic,” he says quietly, “I meant what I said about my father. Charles Ashborne isn’t a nice man.
I don’t want to inflict him on you.” His voice hardens.
“But if he knows about you and I don’t bring you, he’ll assume I’m trying to protect you, and that there’s something more between us than there is. ”
Something more between us than there is.
For a heartbeat, I’d let myself imagine it. That the almost-touches and the lingering eye contact weren’t just in my head. But apparently, they were.
I force my expression into something neutral. Unbothered. Of course there’s nothing more. This is a deal. A strategy. A partnership. I’m not na?ve enough to forget that. Still, something small inside my chest tightens in a way that feels a lot like disappointment.
I straighten my shoulders. “Right,” I say evenly. “Well, we wouldn’t want him getting the wrong idea. So, it looks like I’m coming to dinner.”
Grayson studies me. “You’re sure?”
I lift my chin. “I’m a big girl, Grayson. I can handle myself.”
His lips twitch, almost a smile. “I know you can.” He hesitates and then: “It means staying over. Flying back to Denver tomorrow.”
“I like hotels,” I reply.
“Would you… I mean, you could stay at my apartment. I’ve got a spare room.” It’s a simple sentence, but I think I catch a vulnerability threaded through it.
“Just the one spare room?” I ask, arching a brow.
His eyes shine with amusement. “Maybe a few spare rooms.”
Then I glance down at myself and my Stormhawks jersey and jeans and my biker boots still dusted with stadium grime. “I might need to go shopping while you’re at your meeting.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a sleek black credit card and hands it to me. “Here,” he says. “It’s the least I can do.”
My eyes narrow. I don’t know whether to laugh at the audacity or throw something at him. “This isn’t Pretty Woman, Grayson. I can buy my own damn clothes.”
To my surprise, his reply is just as sharp. “I’m not buying you. I’m trying to help.”
“I’ve been taking care of myself just fine,” I snap back.
“I know. That’s one of the things I admire about you.”
Whatever retort I had lined up to throw back disappears. But prickly is my default setting, so I fold my arms and sit back in my seat. Grayson tucks his credit card back into his pocket and does the same.
I’ve spent years counting pennies and scrubbing beer off floors at 2 a.m. The ease with which he reached for his credit card is just another reminder of how out of my depth I am on this jet.
A reminder that, in two weeks’ time, I’ll go back to running my own bar, my own life.
And Grayson will go back to his. I should be relieved.
I am relieved, I tell myself, ignoring the whisper of dread lingering at the edges of my thoughts any time I think of my life returning to normal.