ELIZA
My fingers tap restlessly on the hardwood table.
The gentle pop of a candle breaks the monotony of the crickets outside. Shadows seep in through the windows and dance in the corners of the room. Nervous energy makes my knee bounce beneath the table.
Any minute now.
Again, I glance at the offering set before me—and my hope crumbles.
This isn’t working.
With a sigh, I shove to my feet and head to the wall, flicking on the lights. At the sudden change, Dave lifts his head, opens his eyes, and stares at me blankly. Really? Again? his expression asks.
“Yes, again,” I mutter.
He tucks his bill back into his feathers and resumes sleeping. I return to the table, examining the tray of cinnamon rolls, utterly hopeless. In the dark, they were indistinguishable blobs. In the light, they’re sad, fluff-less dough spirals smothered in too much icing.
I should’ve asked Joy for her recipe.
The sound of tires over gravel cut through the night, and I swing around to see headlights slice through the blinds. My heartrate clicks into its next gear. I hurry to sit back down, facing the doorway across the living room.
It feels wrong.
Probably because when Grayson walks in, exhausted from a delayed late-night flight, the first thing he’ll see is me, sitting straight-backed at the head of the table like some over-eager exorcist awaiting her prey.
I shuffle around to a side seat. Clasp my hands. Stare at the wall, then the door, then the sad cinnamon buns.
Nope, this is still weird.
Outside, his truck door slams.
Maybe I should just pretend to be sleeping and greet him in the morning. It’s midnight, after all. No matter where I sit, the simple fact that I’ve waited up for him like some loyal medieval wife awaiting her husband’s return from war could be too eccentric.
Keys jiggle in the door. In a burst of panic, I dart from the table, jump over the back of the couch, land haphazardly on a cushion and pop open my laptop.
There. I’m just working late.
And randomly put cinnamon rolls out for him.
Oh my gosh, you’re hopeless.
The door swings open, and I peer over the edge of the couch to where Grayson fills the entranceway. His eyes track across his home before finding me.
Instantly, they light up. He gives his space another scan as he shuffles in with his bags.
“You made yourself at home,” he observes.
Even tired and stale, hair askew from a flight, he’s ruggedly handsome. Those golden irises settle on me again, and his words register.
My blush is immediate.
“It’s just a few things I had on the boat.
Some candles, a few plants, a throw blanket for the couch.
It’s, um, not much. Just wanted to…I mean, I know this isn’t my home.
I’m not, like, actually living here…” His eyes dance with amusement as I sputter, cheeks burning, kicking myself for overstepping.
At the time, I hadn’t thought I was pushing boundaries. Just giving him a nice setting to come home to. Finding use for my décor that was collecting dust on the grounded boat. Not, like, nesting here, or laying claim, or assuming I’ll be spending time here in the future—
Ok, yeah. I was totally doing all of those things.
“It’s nice,” Grayson says, pulling me from my thoughts with a knowing smile. “Almost as nice as that smell coming from the kitchen.”
I clear my throat, shutting my laptop and popping to my feet. “Yeah. Um, I don’t know if you’re hungry, but there are cinnamon rolls,” I say casually as I lead the way to the dining area.
Oh, who am I kidding? I might as well shout: there are cinnamon rolls here, because I spent yesterday interrogating your employees about your favorite dessert, took the afternoon off to make them from scratch, then set it out next to some flowers and a candle like it’s Valentine’s Day.
So freaking casual.
I lean against the table, trying not to fidget as I study him for a reaction. We aren’t officially in a relationship. Just because I’ve made my decisions doesn’t mean he’s made his. Sweet words and flirting over daily phone calls doesn’t confirm anything. This—kill me now—could be so weird of me.
His silence eats at me as he takes in the cinnamon buns, so I babble. “They’re definitely not as good as Joy’s. It’s, um…I’ve never worked with yeast before, so they’re not—”
Grayson’s gaze finds me, and his expression stops my words in their tracks. He’s looking at me with this soft tilt to his lips, honeyed eyes perusing my face with a gentle kind of wonder.
He drops his bags on the floor and launches into motion, removing the space between us with purposeful strides. My breath hitches. Without hesitation, he clasps my cheeks, tilts my head up, and kisses me.
It’s sweet. Tender and slow, like he’s drinking me in, and I melt right into him, hands resting on his chest. He draws back, one of his thumbs smoothing over my cheek as I slowly open my eyes.
“Hi,” he says, his stubble shifting as his cheek hitches. “I missed you.”
He kisses me again, one hand burrowing into my hair, lightly massaging my scalp. It’s a lethal combination, that gentle touch and leisurely kiss, mixed with his heat and strong presence that wrap around me like a hug.
When he draws back again, I’m so light, I could levitate. My fingers curl into the soft cotton of his shirt. “If this is for the cinnamon rolls, you should reevaluate. I’m pretty sure they’re inedible.”
“It’s not about the cinnamon rolls.” His smile widens, and his hand slides down my neck to linger at my waist as he inspects the dish. “Besides, they’re smothered in icing. How can they not be good?”
“I’m pretty sure they’re sugary bricks.”
“You had me at sugary.” He reaches over to snag one, his other hand keeping a firm grip on me.
My phone vibrates on the table just before he makes contact. I don’t even need to look to know who it is. Grayson’s hand pauses as he glimpses the screen.
“Your mom’s calling,” he murmurs with a frown.
“I know.”
“It’s midnight.” His brows come together, and he straightens, his dessert-less hand finding the other side of my waist. “Could it be an emergency?”
“In her eyes, it is.” My hips warm from his fingertips, and I return his touch, grasping his forearms. They’re thick and sturdy, rippled with veins beneath my palms. “Based on the string of text messages she sent before making her first phone call, she just found out I bailed on the interview I had on Monday.”
His worry gives way to shock. “The tech startup?”
I expected his surprise, not his insight. I hadn’t told anyone about the interview. “How do you know?”
“Anson received a call from their HR, checking on your references.” He must see my next question in my eyes, because he explains, “He told me in Ohio. I didn’t mention it because I figured if you wanted to talk about it with me, you would bring it up.
I mean,” the knob of his throat rolls, “I wanted to mention it. Give you support. But with Anson’s offer…
you know what I want. I was afraid I’d end up pressuring you. ”
“And what do you want?” I’m pretty sure I know, but I’m greedy enough to want to hear it from him.
He doesn’t mince words. “I want you.” His thumbs sweep across my skin. “And for you to stay here, where I think you’ll be happy—though I can work around that if it doesn’t pan out.”
The statements come out of him so easily, as if we’ve already addressed this topic. As if it’s common knowledge. Our daily calls over the last week, our little lines of honesty…we’ve implied the heck out of it, but we have yet to lay it out so directly.
It snaps a final puzzle piece into place.
A dorky smile spreads across my lips. “You were concerned about pressuring me. But the thing is, you can’t pressure me when I’ve already made my decision.”
“Did you? Make a decision?” Unlike me, Grayson isn’t smiling. His face isn’t drawn in worry, but the tension along his jaw gives him away. I don’t even know if he realizes he’s being so expressive.
“Mm-hmm.” I reach up and smooth my thumb over his jaw, his scruff scratching my skin. “And I just sealed that decision with an email to your brother. All I need to do now is sign the formal contract when he sends it over.”
Watching realization dawn on his face is better than seeing Garnet Shores’ sunrise from the boat. I commit it to memory, the way his eyes subtly widen, the happy creases that appear beside them, how his mouth softens. The liquid warmth that washes in behind it.
His fingers tighten on my waist as he murmurs, “You really were making yourself at home.”
My chest brushes his as I lean into his heat. “I’m going to find my own place, Grayson.”
“Yeah.” One of his hands slides lower, sweeping across my hip bone. “But you’ll be spending a lot of time here, too.”
I bite my lip. “You sound so confident.”
Through a chuckle, he says, “Yeah, Boston. ‘Cause I am.” Then he lifts me and smashes his mouth into mine.
His hands secure my legs around his waist, and he carries me to the bedroom for the second time in a week—which I gleefully confirm is just as hot as the first time.
I didn’t know I was into Neanderthal behavior, but wrapped up in a rough-hewn, Grayson-shaped package, it’s as arousing as it is addictive.
Boston sure as heck never gave me this.
He shuts us inside his bedroom and tosses me onto the bed, stripping his shirt away to reveal his perfectly carved body and that dark trail of hair leading to another perfect part of his anatomy.
I nervously lick my lips and shove to the edge of the bed. I made my plan a few days ago—did some research to brush up on skills that have never been very good in the first place—and I intend to follow through.
Until Grayson stops me with a hand on my shoulder, planting me firmly on the bed, his other hand pausing on his pant button. “Nope. Scoot that sweet little ass back for me.”
“But I wanted to—”
“I know.”
“What, are you a mind-reader now?”
“Baby, you just zeroed in on my cock like a homing beacon and licked your lips.” Even threaded with humor, his low timbre rumbles through me, flipping any remaining switches that have yet to go haywire.