GRAYSON #2
Aside from the night he offered her the job, I haven’t spoken to Anson about Eliza.
He’s not the guy you go to for relationship advice—and I’ve already made up my mind about what I’m doing.
But Anson’s always been good at reading people, and the fact I’m not moping around like some pathetic, heartbroken sap tells him all he needs to know.
“She’s…” Perfect. Hot as hell. Honestly, the list of adjectives is endless, but I go with, “a lifesaver. She stepped in with tours and the festival. Didn’t even ask her to.”
“And I still got her marketing report in my inbox last night,” he says, a pleased tilt to his mouth.
Then it flattens.
“I got a call this week from some tech startup. The lady was a fucking robot.” If Anson thinks that, she must be as warm and welcoming as a brick. “She was calling for a reference for Eliza’s upcoming interview.”
His implication hits me like a blow to the sternum.
I remind myself the reaction isn’t fair. I know she’s still figuring things out. She hasn’t taken Anson’s offer. I’ve been careful to tell myself every day that she could leave and things could get harder.
But still, it sucks to hear. And it feels even shittier that she didn’t tell me about her interview—not because I’m offended or angry, but because I’m sure it’s a big deal to her, and I want her to share her big deals with me.
I haven’t asked about her job situation because I don’t want to pressure her, but fuck, I want to be there for her. At the very least, I don’t know, wish her good luck.
Not that Eliza needs luck.
“What’d you tell them?” I ask.
“The truth. That she’s fucking excellent. So much that I want her to continue working for me.”
I look away from Anson’s evaluative gaze. White tiles, metal carts, lifeless cream walls. Why does everything in a hospital have to be so damn depressing?
“What are you going to do if she leaves?” he asks.
I drag my gaze back to his. “Date her. If she wants that.”
“How’s that going to work?”
“I’ll make it work.”
“She’s worth it?” He isn’t mocking me, like I’d expect.
No, Anson’s curious. He’s truly wondering how, after last year’s mess, Eliza got me to fall down the rabbit hole again.
Well, he sees it as a rabbit hole. A fruitless endeavor. A waste of time and energy that I could easily and logically keep myself out of. But with the right woman, it’s none of those things.
God, I can’t fucking wait for someone to blast into his life, surprise him with that revelation, and toss his neatly organized world upside-down.
Grinning at that thought, I answer, “Yes.”
He nods to himself, considering this. Probably thinking I’m a fool, too. Then he slaps me with more bad news. “The doctor said Dawson should be discharged in three days. He also said he’s asked to prohibit visitors.”
I’d thought Anson was waiting outside the room because he wanted to face Dawson together, use me as some kind of buffer—not because we’d been banned. “Since when do you let someone tell you what you can and cannot do?”
His flat expression fissures, and his chest heaves a breath. “I don’t know what the fuck happened to our brother, but that—” he jerks his chin toward Dawson’s door— “I don’t know what to do with that.”
A muscle thrums in his jaw, a telltale sign that he’s pissed. But that’s not all. Because his voice sounds alarmingly thin—fragile, from someone who’s as unbreakable as stone—as he grits out, “If I go in there, I’m just going to make things worse. I don’t even have to open my fucking mouth.”
His pain piles on my own.
Anson’s a jackhammer, and Dawson’s a strip of concrete that’s currently crumbling to pieces. But Anson’s not deliberately being an asshole. He’s just being Anson, handling Dawson the only way he knows how, when our little brother needs kid gloves. Space.
Or maybe he does need tough love, for Anson to break him down until he gets his ass into gear. Fuck, how am I supposed to know?
“Are you going home?” I ask quietly.
Anson shakes his head. “I’ll leave when he’s discharged. I don’t want to be hours away if his condition nosedives. There’s a family room on the first floor I’ll work out of.”
I rest my hand on his shoulder. “I’m going in. I’ll say bye for the night, then meet you in the car.” I’m not letting some doctor tell me to stay away from my brother, and regardless of what Dawson said, we’ve always gotten along.
It’s worth a shot.
Anson nods his agreement, and I head in, steeling myself to be a punching bag. Dawson looks up when I enter. He still looks like shit, dark circles bright against his unusually pale skin, sandy hair disheveled across his forehead. Not a good look for a star athlete.
“Told the doc I don’t want visitors,” he says.
“I’m not a visitor. I’m your brother.”
His green eyes track me as I approach the bed. “You’re literally wearing a visitor’s badge.”
“Well, yeah. It’s part of my cover. If they knew I was Dawson Gold’s brother, the tabloids would be after me.”
He doesn’t smile. “You shouldn’t be here, Gray. It’s peak season at the farm.”
“And I’ve been working nonstop. I needed a getaway.”
“This is my fucking mess. I’m the one to deal with it. Don’t make it your problem.” His anger from before is gone, replaced by resignation.
Maybe it’s a new dose of drugs.
I don’t think that’s it, though.
“This is your fucking mess,” I confirm straight-up. Then I grab his wrist and slowly articulate, “But you’re my fucking brother, and I love you. So I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I let go and walk out.
And he doesn’t argue.