Chapter 11 Everly
EVERLY
Despite the settling sounds the manor makes, which are decidedly unsettling—I’m pretty sure a house can’t crack its knuckles, which is exactly what I hear as I try to fall asleep. I toss and turn in bed.
The scene in the hallway fills my mind. Grey’s woodsy scent on the shirt that I wear fills my nose. And I’m all out of cookie dough, otherwise, it would fill my mouth instead of memories of our wedding day kiss.
Taking out my diary, across the top, I write The Kiss List: The pros and cons of kissing my husband. As we stood there, it felt like we might kiss again...or at least we were both thinking of the original one. I’m a save-the-best-for-last kind of gal, so I start with the cons column. In it goes:
We married for convenience
I don’t want to risk my job
Shouldn’t rush into anything since I’m fresh off the runaway bride train
We established some rules, but not for this
I’m notoriously terrible at keeping secrets
The risk of things not working out between us (my heart is a bit fragile at the mo)
As for the pros column, I write:
Kissing Grey on our wedding day was the kiss that ruined all other kisses for me
I light up when he touches me and could power a small city if we were to kiss again—I consider this a public service
He smells so good and all I want is to get closer to the scent like a hound dog
It would be cruel not to satisfy the giddy butterflies inside my tummy
The increase in my heart rate is probably good for my cardiovascular health
Despite all the ways we’re opposites, when we kissed, we connected and it felt like we were made for each other
Thoughts down on paper, I finally fall asleep and my dreams are Viking cookie dough delicious.
The next morning, I wake to a sunny day, ready to take on Grey and what’s sure to be his cloudy weather.
We meet for a formal breakfast so he can practice his table manners. Unfortunately, I’m still wearing the daisy sundress and pink metallic flats so it doesn’t take me long to get ready, but I expect him to be late.
However, I find the man seated at the table with the white linen cloth reading the newspaper. It’s the sports section, but still, it’s surprisingly civilized.
“Good morning,” I say brightly.
He grunts. Instead of putting down the newspaper, he turns the page.
I frown, considering last night I thought maybe we’d connected.
I’m all too familiar with this kind of greeting, but I can’t exactly stomp my feet and have a temper tantrum because I want his attention. Been there. Done that. Doesn’t work. At least not with men like my father or, at least it seems, Greyson Adams.
“I can’t hire an interpreter, so starting today, I’m going to create a book of translations to decode your responses. A grunt is an acknowledgment. Whether it’s a yes or a no, it’s not clear.”
Grey doesn’t so much as chuckle.
“Next, a snort is laughter or derision. A groan might mean disappointment. Let’s see, then there’s the growl, which, let’s be honest, is intense. Are there any other sounds I should be aware of? Do you speak another language besides Cro magnum man?”
This elicits a grunt, which he follows with, “I speak some Norwegian.”
“I’m fluent in French, thanks to my father’s French Canadian heritage, but I am not versed in your animal sounds.”
He snorts.
I can’t say this is progress.
“So, what’s on the menu this morning?” I’m asking Grey, but Arthur steps forward, offering a variety of menu options. I ask about Britta’s recovery, Goodie’s visit, and thank him again for the cookies.
“Hmm. By any chance, do you have waffle cones?”
“We serve waffles on Wednesdays, miss.”
“I’m in the mood for a waffle cone with coffee ice cream.” I end up resorting to my age-old attention-grabbing tactics that failed on my father, but I have to give it the old college try, right?
Arthur’s expression pinches with distress at my breakfast choice. Still shielded by the newspaper wall, I do a little wink-head nudge to indicate that Arthur go along with my charade.
He nods as if catching on to my approach with the reform school student.
“Or I could go for some chocolate cake.”
“For breakfast?” a gruff voice says from behind a headline about American football players mooning their superiors.
I make a thoughtful little hmm sound, considering it.
“That’s not a balanced breakfast,” Grey says, appalled.
“If you think about it, a fried pancake slathered in butter and liquid sugar maple syrup isn’t either.”
“Pancakes are garbage food.”
I blink a few times, unsure I heard him correctly. “You don’t like pancakes?”
“I didn’t say I dislike them. I don’t approve of them.”
“Are you some kind of monster?”
He grunts.
“What are you having for breakfast?” I ask.
Before he answers, Arthur brings out a plate topped with stacked layers of what looks like sourdough toast, sliced turkey, baby spinach, mashed avocado, and poached eggs. I wrinkle my nose.
Arthur asks, “Anything else, sir?”
“Do you have hot sauce?”
“May I please have some hot sauce?” I correct.
Grey’s lips remain fastened in a thin and defiant line.
Arthur scuttles away, probably in search of hot sauce and a poking stick in case Grey gets ornery.
My mémé, who lived outside Quebec City, used to walk five miles a day, weather permitting.
She’d always carry a stick in case a mouffette (that’s the stinky, black-and-white critter) got any wild ideas.
“Also, you were supposed to wait for me to order your breakfast.” I put on a little pout.
“I was hungry.” To my shock and surprise, Grey says a quiet blessing over his food.
“You spend too much time alone and have forgotten, or never learned, how to behave.”
“My mother would take offense.”
“I’m sure she’s a lovely woman and would appreciate that I’m reminding her son not to eat like a savage bandit who just stole a whole chicken and is eating it raw.”
“You paint a grisly picture.”
“Lose your appetite?” I chuckle.
He wipes his fingers and straightens. “I’m not alone too much. I’m with the guys on the team all the time.”
“Might I remind you that you’re all here?”
I take his grunt to mean touché. Ha! Score for Team Everly.
Arthur drops off the hot sauce and hurries back to the safety of the sideboard table in the corner.
Despite my gentle coaching, Grey proceeds to inhale his breakfast like it might be his last meal. Never mind about the win. I didn’t realize that part comes with the caveman package—patent-pending, batteries not included.
I pump my hands. “Mr. Adams, slow down. I don’t want you to choke.”
Fork lifted halfway to his mouth, he asks, “No?”
“No. I’m not sure I can wrap my arms around you if I need to give you the Heimlich.”
He cuts his pace by a third and is done by the time my waffle with a scoop of vanilla ice cream arrives. It’s not my favorite, but it’s close enough and I thank Arthur profusely.
I drizzle it with syrup, but only because I sense it’ll annoy Grey. I did say I don’t want him to choke, but I never mentioned anything about not wanting to be a little itch that he can’t scratch, at least until he starts cooperating.
Done with breakfast and the newspaper, he sets it and his plate aside. “So, what’s next?”
“After I’m done eating my delicious meal, we’re going on a field trip.”
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes life throws us a party, only instead of candy in the pinata, we realize we’ve been whacking a wasps’ nest,” I mutter that last part.
He grunts.
“Does that mean you understand or did I just throw you a curveball?”
“Football.”
“Football, what?” I ask, growing increasingly irritated by his single-word side of the conversation.
“I play football. A curveball is a baseball term.”
“Ah, so he does have command of the English language.” If Cateline were a fly on the wall, she’d buzz past and scold me for not teaching through example and demonstrating my manners. But Grey is a particularly tough customer, so I need to pour on the tough love.
Of course, he grunts.
“I don’t care what sports ball we’re talking about, did you catch my meaning?”
Grunt.
“Grunt, grunt, grunt. Okay, Grunt Guy, we’re going to try again. Let’s attempt a civilized and polite conversation. One you’d have in mixed company. For example, say you were seated at the table with Commissioner Starkowsky, his daughter Elyse, and the officials.”
“I see you did your homework.”
“Read the newspaper article while you used it as a shield.”
“A shield?” he snorts.
Which I take as progress, because it’s not a grunt.
“I was tracking the stocks,” he says.
“In the International News section? Anyway, back to our scenario. You’re at the table with the people you mooned.”
“You forgot Brandon.”
“Okay, he’s here too in this scenario.”
“And you?” he asks.
“Am I here? For our purposes today, let’s say yes. I’m seated at the head of the table, atop a throne,” I say the last part with a theatrical flourish, if only to see whether he’ll break his fast on frowning.
Grey rests his forearms on the table and clasps his hands. “First, I’d tell the commish that he made the wrong decision to send us here.”
My eyebrows lift. “I was thinking more along the lines of starting with a neutral topic like the weather.”
“Then I’d remind the officials that they’re paying for this.” He points his finger in the air and gives it a little spin to indicate Blancbourg.
“Asking about their families is a more appropriate topic of conversation,” I suggest.
“I’d apologize to Elyse, but I’m well aware of what she did in the locker room three seasons ago.”
“I was going to say now we’re getting somewhere, but we all make mistakes and that sounds more like something to bring up privately.”
“Brandon would get an earful because he should not have snapped the photo. If he’s the one who leaked it to the press, I’d consider snapping one of his fingers.”
I wince.
“I’m kidding. I want him to be at his best for the season, but putting a little fear into him will keep him on his toes.”
“Does that really work?”
“It really does. But I also plan to take time with him during preseason so he’s game-ready. I do that with all our new players, especially the younger ones.”
“Well, aren’t you the dangerous gentleman.”
Leaning back in his chair, Grey wears the faintest smirk, almost undetectable, beneath his beard. He laces his hands behind his head.
“And what about me? What would you say to me?” I ask.
Grey watches me eat for a long moment, then he says, “I’d tell you that you have the diet of an unsupervised child.”
I sputter and am at risk of needing an abdominal thrust, but thankfully, the ice cream washes the bite of waffle down. I contemplate what to say while I take careful and slow bites, chewing each one at least twenty times.
Unfortunately, an edge piece of waffle I had balanced on my fork because it had the perfect amount of ice cream, drops onto my dress. Right on the part I don’t want anyone to notice. I should’ve worn my mother’s scarf, but then it would’ve gotten syrup on it.
“Oops. Are you going to drink the rest of your water? I should probably spot-treat this.”
Grey looks at his glass like he’s been walking across a parched desert for a week, then slides it my way.
“Thank you.” I dab at what I hope doesn’t become a stain.
“Didn’t you wear that yesterday?” Grey asks.
“How nice of you to notice. Why yes, I did.” I plaster on a fake, fake, fake smile.
“You have the wardrobe of a teenager.”
I’m not obsessed with clothing or appearances, but have, throughout my life, looked relatively put together and stylish.
Heidi’s hand-me-downs were a necessity and it’s hard not to feel the sting of Grey’s comment.
But I remind myself I am here to correct his beastly ways.
“Hmm. True, and you have a mouth your mother should wash out with soap.” I never said I was perfect and above slapping him back with some banter.
“Leave my mother out of this,” he grinds out.
“Stop insulting my food and clothing choices, meanie.” Admittedly, he’s not wrong about my breakfast selection, but the outfit situation was based on necessity and the stupid airline lost my stuff.
“Grow up,” he says.
I audibly gasp. “Okay, old man. I’ll do that just as soon as you do, he who showed the world his backside.”
“I’m not old. I’m in my late thirties.”
“I’m in my late twenties and am enjoying life, including this waffle with delicious melty ice cream.” I zig and zag my fork like an out-of-control airplane.
“And you still eat cookie dough.”
“I love cookie dough and brownies and all the foods you probably don’t let yourself eat.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m a professional athlete and what I put in my body matters.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m actually happy.
Where I live, it’s sunny. The birds are chirping.
I smile and laugh and occasionally eat ice cream for breakfast. I’m alive.
” Yes, I’m happy in general. Or I would be if my husband and I hadn’t just had our first argument, but I don’t say that because of our Marriage of Convenience Club rules.
His eyes flash and go dark. “You don’t know anything about me, Everly. Anyway, why should you care?”
My heart pinches because it’s obvious he’s masking pain of some sort. A wound, a hole. Emptiness. Yes, that’s what it is. Something is missing in his life.
Maybe it’s a coincidence that Grey and I were brought back together, or perhaps because I got a second chance after my health trouble, I can show him what it’s like to heal and really live.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “Greyson, I didn’t pay for a subscription to the Grump on Demand Network, yet that’s what I got. Lucky for you, there was a company merger and I’m bringing the sunshine. Cue the lights, the music, and the sparkle hands.”
I wave and wiggle my fingers, but don’t so much as get a grunt, a snort, or a ghost of a grin from behind his beard. And yet, I cannot tear my eyes from his lips, reminding me, once more, of the kissituation.