Chapter 8
GRAYSON
Ifucking hate this girl. What the fuck does she want from me?
She’s standing there looking so damn fuckable in an oversized shirt, not wearing a bra, no shorts in sight. Messy hair, cute smile. What the fuck?!
I run a hand down my face.
Get it together, man.
I’m glad she left, but I turn away anyway because the semi in my pants is the last thing I need anyone to see. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Nothing.
I don’t have to like her to admit she’s smoking hot.
“Why do you hate me?”
Why is she back? Why the fuck can’t she leave me alone? Usually she’s good at taking a hint. She goes her way and I go mine. Our interactions are kept to an absolute minimum. Why the fuck is she trying to talk to me now!?
“Grayson?”
Her voice is unbearably soft. If I was anyone else I might feel bad about the hurt laced through her words. Hell, if I wasn’t an asshole I would lie or make something up, but I don’t care, so I simply turn to scowl at her and reply, “I don’t fucking know you—”
She gives me a tiny, hopeful smile, “Well, I’m—”
“—and I don’t want to,” I finish before she can say anything else.
Her smile fades to a sad, little frown. This girl and her emotions. Always on display.
“Right.” She takes a step back. “Okay.” She inhales loudly. “Fine.”
She’s quiet as she leaves the kitchen a second time. I don’t watch her walk away. There’s no point. Instead, I finish cleaning up. All the trash and empty bottles go outside. I sweep the entire first floor, turn off the tv in the living room, then go down to the basement to clear my head.
Unfortunately when I open the door to my favorite room in this house, she’s there. Playing pool. Or rather, attempting to—she has horrible form.
While I’m wondering why she’s at my pool table, she bends over. It’s a gorgeous view of her perfect ass in tiny black shorts.
I’m not not impressed.
Whatever, I’m not doing this. I turn to go and my shoe squeaks against the tile when I do.
“Hey, wait. Um, I was just leaving.”
Liar.
She looks around with the cue stick in hand, searching for the caddy. It’s in the cabinet behind her, but I don’t help her out. She ends up placing it on the edge of the pool table where it’s going to—yup, clatter to the floor.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, cheeks going pink.
She hands it to me as she walks past. Her stomach growls. Loud. Like it’s about to destroy everything in its path. Jesus, doesn’t this girl eat?
“There’s food upstairs.”
“And I was trying to get some but a grumpy baseball player said he hates me, so I left.”
“Are you always this dramatic?” I ask as I slip my phone out of my pocket to order breakfast for the house.
“Dramatic?!”
I shrug. “So I don’t like you, who gives a fuck?”
“I do.”
I’m not sure what I expect to see but her mouth in an adorable pout is not it. She crosses her arms, squeezing her perfect tits together. I fucking swear they’re daring me to come closer. All I’ve wanted to do since last night is have a taste.
“If someone doesn’t like you,” she asks, interrupting my inappropriate thoughts, “it wouldn’t bother you?”
“Not in the least.”
She tilts her head to the side, studying my expression.
Her green eyes are focused on my face and the intensity—the interest there—is one of the reasons I don’t date.
This girl is with Seavers, the full of shit shooting guard on the basketball team, and yet she’s looking at me like she’s available.
Truth be told, she looks like she might get naked on the pool table if I asked her to do it.
That or slap the shit out of me for asking.
I’m tempted to ask her anyway, just to see what she’d do. After all, I don’t have to like her to fuck her.
When she comes closer, her hands drop to her sides. I can see the outline of her full breasts and the tips of her nipples through that thin shirt. Fuck me.
How’s it possible that she looks as tempting in this oversized shirt she’s practically swimming in as she did last night in the low-cut, barely there dress that left little to the imagination?
“Why aren’t you over at James House?”
Not sure why I asked. Curious, I suppose.
The question takes her by surprise, leaving her confused. Probably wondering how much to divulge. She chews on her bottom lip. I admit, it’s entertaining reading her expressions.
“W-why would I be there?” she stutters.
“Your boyfriend’s there.”
Not that I care. Simple curiosity.
“You mean Cash? He’s not my boyfriend.”
Interesting.
“He said you went there for him.”
And I saw red. Not sure why. Maybe it was his smug smile. Maybe it was the leering he directed her way. Why am I still on this? Let it go, Grayson.
Fortunately, the doorbell rings.
“You’ll want to get that,” I state, turning away, giving her my back. Given the positioning of the 8-ball on the table, she had no clue what she was doing. I rack up the balls.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her cross her arms over her chest. The intimidating look she’s attempting is belied by her stomach growling again.
“It’s breakfast,” I add when she refuses to go.
“Oh.” She takes a step closer. “You ordered food?” Her voice softens. “That was nice of—”
“I didn’t do it for you,” I’m quick to clarify. I didn’t.
“So you keep saying,” she sighs. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”
I suppose I can’t. The way things stand, I refuse to give someone like her the wrong impression. I’m not interested. I’m never going to be.
“Can’t have you badmouthing our house,” I state.
“I wouldn’t—I’d never say anything to make Sammy look bad. He’s my brother.”
I don’t bother with a reply. Instead, I return to my game.
The doorbell rings again.
“Well, thank you for ordering breakfast. I’ll let Sammy know before I go home,” she states with finality, but she stands there a while, not saying anything else. Finally, she gives up and leaves. The only sound is the door closing behind her.
It’s only once she’s gone and I’m alone again, that I feel like myself. Hot or not, I’m not wasting anymore of my time on her.