Eliza
There’s something about waking up to the soft sounds of another person starting their day. The muted footsteps, the careful thud of a coffee mug, the soft wash of water from the sink.
It’s comforting.
Always has been, even when that other person was Kyle, and I no longer loved him as I once did.
Maybe it’s childhood nostalgia, the sounds of my parents getting ready when I was waking up for school. Maybe those noises stop my to-do list from shoving to the forefront the second I open my eyes, or maybe it’s that humans aren’t meant to live alone.
Whatever it is, the quiet sounds of Grayson moving about the house have me waking up much calmer than I should be, considering last night’s events. Events that he’d handled with that confident assurance that’s quickly become the antidote to my panic.
The sunlight streaming into the room finally registers, and I check my phone to see it’s nearly ten in the morning.
Why isn’t he at the farm?
Sliding from bed, I throw on sweatpants and a bra beneath my tee-shirt, check my face for drool, and pad into the hallway.
The rich aroma of coffee hits me first, followed by sizzling butter.
Then I’m struck by the sight of Grayson standing over the stove with his back to me, hair mussed, Dave cradled in one arm while he works a spatula with the other.
He’s wearing a cut-off that hangs off his broad back, every muscle curled around my feathered nemesis on full display.
If I thought the sounds he made were nice, this is…a visual blessing.
The floorboards creak under my next step, and he twists.
“Morning.”
Dave’s neck cranes, those beady little eyes spotting me. I might hate this duck, but my ovaries want to explode at the sight of him nestled in Grayson’s arm like a baby.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt your private time.”
“Don’t worry. Dave gets to hang with me all the time. He’s just helping me make breakfast.” He turns back around. “You gluten-free or anything like that?”
“No,” I answer, a little dazed.
Grayson is making me breakfast. After all he did last night.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I ask, edging into the kitchen.
“Heading in late today.” He flips what looks like a pancake.
There’s a bottle of maple syrup and a bowl of fruit on the eat-in counter, and a carton of cream next to a pot of coffee and an empty mug.
“Team’s there and everything looks fine after the storm, so there’s no rush.
” He jerks his head toward the coffee machine. “Rest is yours if you want it.”
I have caffeine every morning. Of course I want it.
But I don’t move.
Because the sudden realization that hits me is paralyzing.
I want this man. Him, who’s going into work late just to make me breakfast, who’s going out of his way to take care of me.
I want him beyond what he did to me on the beach. I want him beyond our stupid digs, our banter, the tension we’re both trying to deny.
And no imaginary rickety stone wall is going to change my mind.
I can’t pretend he doesn’t make me feel both safe and strong—calm when I need it, and alive every other minute I’m with him. I can’t pretend he doesn’t feel right—make me feel right—despite being the rugged, boorish, provocative antithesis to my expectations.
Which means he’s going to follow me back to the city and haunt my sorry ass, and I’m just going to have to make space for that misery until eventually—months later, probably—I forget about him.
Because that’s the only way Grayson will be with me outside of Garnet Shores.
The last two weeks have made it clear that he’s not interested in pursuing anything serious.
And I’m not going to try to convince him otherwise, because despite this realization that he’s something, someone, rare in this world…
I just can’t see how we would work. Not when I’m two hours away and he works seven-day weeks, just like me.
I owe myself more. Grayson deserves more, too.
Well, at least he’s uncovered what your actual type is.
What a pathetic consolation prize.
“Don’t have any sugar, unfortunately.” Grayson’s voice jolts me back to the moment.
“Cream is great,” I say, composing myself as I move to pour a coffee. He flips the last two pancakes onto a plate piled with steaming, pillowy goodness. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“Do what? Make myself breakfast?” He gently sets Dave down and carries the plate to the eat-in counter.
I trail behind him as he rummages through a cabinet. “You’re telling me you make yourself pancakes on the regular?”
“Sure do.”
I’m not buying it one bit.
Taking a seat, I hug my coffee in my hands. “You shouldn’t be making me pancakes after last night,” I say honestly. “You’ve already done so much.”
He sets a plate before me and grabs two forks. “I’m about to deliver some bad news. The pancakes will soften the blow.”
Grayson sits next to me and drags the pancakes over, depositing two on my plate before serving himself. When he hands me the maple syrup and continues to say nothing else, I prompt, “Are you trying to build suspense?”
“No. I’m waiting for you to take a bite before I say it.”
Dousing my pancakes, I take a giant forkful and stuff it in my mouth. “Ready.” My voice is muffled around the pancake.
Grayson lifts a humored brow, but his voice is serious as he says, “Your boat’s being hauled for repairs. Gary doesn’t want you to live on it while it’s out of the water. It’s last in the queue, so it could be a few weeks.”
The pancake turns to ash in my mouth. “How do you…did you call him?”
“I called him early this morning and explained the situation. Not because you can’t handle it yourself, but because I know you’d want to wake up with solutions, which I have.”
He looks like he expects me to be outraged by him going over my head, but with his explanation, I’m not.
I’m grateful.
And instantly stressed. I’m out of a home.
“Anson has a guest house on his property that no one’s using. He’s offering it to you, no charge.”
“I can’t take a hand-out from my boss.” The reaction is immediate. “I’ll get a hotel or…or a rental or something.”
As if anticipating this response, he smoothly continues, “Any rentals in town have been booked for months, and one night at a hotel in the summer will cost you a couple hundred. So if you don’t want to stay at Anson’s, the other option is that you stay here in the guest room until your boat’s back in the water. ”
He goes quiet, observing me as I take this in.
Surely, there has to be some other option. Something better than depending on my very intimidating boss for housing, or invading Grayson’s space. But apart from car camping or…or actual camping, there’s nothing I can do. I don’t have the budget to stay in a hotel for weeks.
“I really don’t feel comfortable mooching off my employer.” As it is, the fact that he drove out in a late-night storm to help me makes me want to shrivel up inside.
Grayson shrugs. “Then you’re staying here.” He resumes eating his pancakes, like he didn’t just nonchalantly decide I’m moving in with him. Like the butterflies in my stomach aren’t throwing a house party right now.
“You have a lot going on. I don’t want to impose,” I argue weakly.
“You’re not. Though you’ll have to get along with Dave.”
I glance at the feathered monster, waddling little circles around the living room, then back to Grayson. My chest is full of giddy, starry-eyed excitement that clearly hasn’t gotten the memo that this is going to suck.
Teasing myself, playing house with a man I can’t have, who just elevated himself to superhero status by offering me his place.
Maybe he clogs the toilet with massive dumps, or eats out of the trash, or doesn’t wash his hands, and everything I feel for him will effectively be squashed.
The thought is a small comfort.
“If I can handle week-one Grayson, I can handle a bird,” I tell him, digging into my pancakes.
He spares Dave a sympathetic look. “Sorry, buddy. You have no idea what you’re in for.”
Hot, lemon-scented steam blasts my face as I open the oven and remove the chicken for the fourth time in six minutes. Using two forks, I carefully open the slice I made in one of the chicken breasts to see if it’s finally done.
God forbid I overcook it and Grayson eat rubbery poultry. The entire world will collapse. So here I am, being shamelessly obsessive.
The juices run clear, so I shut off the oven and start setting the table.
There isn’t much dishware to choose from—just a handful of mismatched plates, a random collection of utensils, and some scratched up glasses.
It’s on-trend with what I found in his fridge earlier: condiments, a few eggs, milk, maple syrup, and three too-soft apples.
I’d categorize it as bachelor living, but that’s not entirely fair.
I’ve seen guys’ homes with speakers galore, couches stained from way too much NSFW activity, and a fine layer of dust on floors that have never been properly cleaned.
This isn’t Kyle’s manicured, modern apartment, but it isn’t gross, either. Just…bare.
It’s the home of someone who literally comes here to sleep and eat dinner, and spends almost every other hour in his day working.
A car pulls up outside, and Grayson walks through the door just as I set the rice on the table.
Dark circles cut under his eyes, telling the story of a man who was my savior until three in the morning, woke early to solve more of my problems, then busted his ass at work before returning home at—I peek at the oven clock—eight-thirty at night.
Yet somehow, his exhaustion lifts when he steps in and takes in the scene. “You made dinner?”
Dave scoots in behind him as he saunters closer, tossing his keys on the counter. He doesn’t have anything else on him. No water bottle. No lunch box. He just…raw-dogged it all day.
Now that I think of it, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him bring lunch to the farm. The few times I’ve passed the warehouse during break, it’s always sandwich wrappers and chip bags, or take-out on the table. What was he expecting to eat for dinner? Eggs with maple syrup and a soft apple?
Men.