Chapter 21 #2
“Pups need to learn what no means. Otherwise the first time he loses his temper at school, he’s going to put claws through a kid he doesn’t mean to hurt.
” His face goes serious. “He’s been pushing me on it since he met you, trying to win you to his side every time I tell him no.
The boy’s never had anyone soft to run to before. ”
“It’s okay if he does that.”
“No.” His tone is level but firm. “The human world isn’t forgiving, Miranda. He gets one chance to slip up in front of the wrong person, and the consequences are too dangerous.”
The breath catches in my chest. He’s right.
The thought that surfaces is quiet and final.
Any hopes I had left about something real with him just died.
The pull I’ve been pretending isn’t there, this thing between us that has been turning into something, all of it lives on the other side of a line I can’t cross.
The ache that spreads inside me is hard to ignore.
“I’m going to bed,” I say abruptly, needing to process this turn of events, to come to terms with my new reality.
I stand. The flannel slips off my shoulder, and his hand catches my wrist before I’ve taken a step.
“You’re leaving just like that?”
I look down at him. “What else is there?”
“You don’t have more questions?”
“What do you want me to ask?”
He studies me a moment too long. “Questions about us, specifically.”
My stomach drops, and I go very still, careful with my face. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He pulls me into his lap, and I make a small, undignified sound on the way down. His arm wraps around my back, anchoring me, his other hand settling on my thigh as I shift to keep weight off my stitches.
“Fine, then I’ll start.” His voice has gone quiet. “What happened that night?”
“Which night do you mean?”
“The one neither of us has been talking about.”
My face goes hot. “If you’re implying that I—”
“I’m not implying anything.”
“Because I would never—”
“Miranda, listen.” His thumb is moving in a slow circle against my thigh through the denim. “I just want to know if I did something I shouldn’t have.”
I open my mouth and close it. He’s worried, the set of his brow giving him away, the line of his jaw, sitting here wondering whether he hurt me, whether he pushed me into something. My irritation collapses on itself.
“No, that’s not what happened. You didn’t force me.”
The relief that moves through him is visible, his shoulders dropping a quarter inch. He raises one brow, his voice gone teasing. “So you seduced me.”
“I did not seduce you.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“You were drunk and miserable, and I was trying to look after you.” I poke his chest with one finger. “Apparently you go from sad to handsy faster than I thought a person could.”
He kisses the tip of my nose. “It’s only around you,” he murmurs.
I shove at his shoulder and stand up because one more minute on his lap would push me into something I can’t take back. “I’m done.”
I make it three steps toward the sliding door before his voice follows me out. “Humans and shifters can be together, you know.”
I freeze in the doorway, my hand on the frame, my back to him. He isn’t supposed to be able to read my mind, isn’t supposed to have caught what I was thinking five minutes ago when I sat there pretending I wasn’t grieving something I never had. I look over my shoulder.
He’s leaning back in the chair with his ankle crossed over his knee, a half-smile on his stupid face, watching me with the patience of a man in no hurry whatsoever.
I flip him off, and his laugh follows me into the house, audible through the glass as I climb the stairs, my face burning, my pulse loud in my ears, the stitches in my arm pulling with every step.
The morning brings a newspaper.
Sterling sets it on the breakfast table at eight-thirty with the careful expression of a man delivering ordnance. He’s in his usual gray suit, briefcase tucked against the leg of his chair, and he hasn’t even sat down before he pushes the front page toward me across the kitchen island.
I look at it. Then I look again because my brain refuses to take in what it’s seeing the first time.
The photograph takes up half the front page: Grayson with his arm hooked around my ribs, my toes off the ground, my hands in his hair.
The angle catches the ring on my left hand where it’s pressed against the back of his neck.
My mouth is open against his, and his eyes are closed.
Heat floods my entire face.
WOLFE’S LATE WINNER, ENGAGEMENT CONFIRMED. That’s the headline. Below it: Hockey star’s nurse fiancée seen at last night’s home game.
Grayson leans over my shoulder, coffee in hand, with no shame whatsoever. “Oh, that’s a great shot.”
I hit him with the newspaper. “Shut up.”
“What are you mad about? It really is a great shot.”
“I look like I’m trying to eat your face.”
“You sort of were.”
I hit him harder. He’s laughing into his coffee.
Sterling clears his throat with the dignity of a man who has been ignored on more important occasions.
“I’d like to focus, if you don’t mind. This shifts the custody narrative in our favor today.
The story is on every major outlet, tabloids and broadsheets both.
Two morning shows mentioned it in their opener. After this, today we should—”
“There’s no itinerary today,” Grayson cuts in. “I’m taking Miranda shopping.”
Sterling stops, and I turn my head to look at him. “You’re taking me what?”
“We’re going shopping.” Grayson sips his coffee. “It’ll take all day, so we’ll be unavailable until evening.”
Sterling looks between the two of us. “This could work. You two can get photographed—”
“No.” Grayson shakes his head. “Today is ours.”
“Can I come?” Ethan’s head appears over the edge of the island, a piece of toast in his hand which is slathered in butter.
“You can’t come today, buddy. Coach has you for the day.”
Ethan’s eyes water. “But—”
Sterling interjects. “Mr. Wolfe, with respect, if Ethan is photographed with the two of you today, the optics are significantly better for the case. He sells you as a family man with a stable household, a devoted father. We’ve been building toward this for the custody filing.”
Ethan’s lip retracts, and he looks at Sterling like he’s just discovered a powerful new ally.
“Not today.” Grayson gives Sterling a look, and the man sighs, tucking his pen into his pocket with care.
“Very well. I will send over the itinerary for the next couple of days.”
He leaves as Ethan pleads with me with his eyes to be allowed to come. I look at Grayson. “If we’re going shopping, let’s just take Ethan—”
Grayson sets his coffee down and braces both hands on the counter on either side of my hips, cutting me off mid-sentence.
I lift my chin. “What are you doing?”
“Today is about you and me.”
“I understood that.”
“Did you really, though?”
“Yes, I understood you. And I think Sterling’s right that we should bring Ethan. It’d look bett—”
“Miranda, focus.” He leans in, his eyes on mine. “Do I need to spell this out?”
“What is there to spell out?”
“It’s a date, Miranda.”
I blink.
“I’m taking you on a date.”
“A date?” I wet my lips. “Without Ethan?”
“Yes.” He leans closer. “You and me. We can spend time together without my son as well.”
I glance toward Ethan, who is sulking now. “He’ll be really sad—”
“You’re mine, not his,” Grayson says sharply, and his eyes flicker toward Ethan. I’m about to say something when I see his eyes change color. I recall what he said last night about teaching his son. I purse my lips and see Ethan turn away, biting down on his toast, looking downcast.
He leaves the room, and my eyes follow him. Then I turn my head to face Ethan. “Why are we going on a date if it’s not for the cameras?”
He stares at me, and there’s a flicker of hurt in his eyes. “You don’t want to go with me?”
I open my mouth and then snap it shut. “It’s not—I don’t know what you want,” I finally say quietly. “This. This whole thing is supposed to be for Ethan. It’s supposed to be fake. But you’re—”
His hand closes around my jaw. He pulls me forward and kisses me hard, his other hand sliding into the hair at the back of my head.
My hands come up and fist in the front of his shirt without my permission.
His tongue licks into my mouth, slow and possessive, exploring me like he has every right to.
Heat floods my entire body. I taste coffee, the salt of his skin, and something darker underneath that makes me whimper against his lips.
His teeth scrape my bottom lip, and when I gasp, he uses the opening to deepen the kiss until I’m not thinking at all.
My back arches against the counter. Somewhere in the small part of my brain that’s still functioning, I feel his thumb tip my chin back so he can angle the kiss exactly how he wants it, and a low growl rumbles out of his chest when I melt against him.
He pulls back just enough to breathe. “Does that seem fake to you?”
I meet his gaze, my voice wavering. “What do you want from me, Grayson?”
“You,” he says hoarsely. “I want you.”
My lips part. Nothing comes out. I want to tell him the truth, that I’ve been falling for him, that I can’t stop no matter what I tell myself.
But the words are stuck in my throat. He waits a second, and when I don’t answer, he brushes my hair back from my temple with surprising gentleness.
“It doesn’t matter how long it takes.” His mouth is at my hairline.
“I’m going to win you over, Miranda, because I have time. ”
My eyes close, and he whispers, “You should go get changed.”
I can’t get out of the kitchen fast enough.
In our room, I try to calm down. I don’t know how to explain this irrational fear inside me to him or myself.
He says and does all the right things, and I’m just scared of the what-ifs.
I’ve spent so long on my own, struggling, that the idea of a man like Grayson in my life makes me terrified.
What if he gets bored? What if he tires of me? What if I’m not enough?