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I run my eyes up and down the thick, broad outline of his body. I’ve never, ever felt weak in the knees. But right now, taking in Greyson’s off-white henley and the tight navy sweats that hang low on his hips, my left knee literally gives out.
“Hate yours,” I manage.
His lips twitch. He steps aside. “I can tell. Come in.”
Stepping into his foyer, I hold out the folder.
“For you,” I say. Then I nod at the bourbon in the crook of my elbow. “And this, obviously, is for Charlie Brown.”
“Kid after my own heart. Eight weeks and she already has a taste for the good stuff.”
“You have no idea what I’d do for a good Old Fashioned right now.”
Greyson tilts his head. “I’ve got something better.”
I follow him down the hall. Notice the picture frames on top of a chest of drawers we pass. There’s a baby in two of them, along with Ford and what I can only assume are other members of their family.
During the interactions I’ve had with Ford, he’s always mentioned his daughter. I wonder what kind of relationship Greyson has with his niece.
Glancing back up at him—the strong lines of his shoulders and back, the alarmingly satisfying way they press against the cozy fabric of his shirt—I wonder again what his story is. I’d had him pegged as a one-dimensional egomaniac. The typical greed-is-good, emotionally stunted corporate hack.
It’s becoming clear he’s more complex than that.
I like complex men. Same as I like complex characters in fiction.
My hunger to know more about him is a pang that won’t go away.
Speaking of hunger. The smell of something buttery and warm makes my stomach grumble as we head down the hall.
It’s a homey smell. A comforting one. Growing up, my mom cooked dinner almost every night. The yummy smell would hit me all the way upstairs in my bedroom, where I’d be doing homework or chatting with my friends on AOL instant messenger on the off chance I could hijack our phone line for dial-up internet.
When was the last time someone cooked a meal for me?
Yeah, Greyson and I are wearing pants with elastic waistbands. But this—him cooking, the two of us sharing a meal that doesn’t come in takeout boxes—feels extraordinarily special.
Vaguely I wonder where Charlie Brown will sleep when he or she arrives. I imagine we’ll need two cribs, right? One at my place. One here, at Greyson’s.
The idea of seeing bottles and blankets and bouncy seats in his gorgeous home makes me smile.
My weird mood, which had already begun to dissipate, clears altogether. Replaced by a kind of buzzy-soft excitement.
I just have this feeling about tonight. A good feeling.
The hall opens up into an enormous kitchen with exposed brick walls and soaring ceilings. My gaze roves appreciatively over the quartzite-topped island, the antique wooden beams on the ceiling, the cabinets that are just the right shade of off-black.
It’s not my style—too big, too masculine, too industrial—but I can appreciate the craftsmanship and careful design that went into it.
Go figure. Greyson is all about budgets and timelines at work. But at home, it’s obvious he’s got real taste. Or, at the very least, enough money to buy real taste.
He sets the bourbon on the island.
“Your house is beautiful,” I say. “Also. Whatever you’re making smells amazing.”
“My grandmother’s chicken and rice,” he says, pouring red wine from a fancy looking decanter into two glasses: a wine glass and, as promised, a shot glass. “She called it Chicken Bog, that name is kind of unfortunate, so we go with chicken and rice. Best comfort food there is. Seemed right for a cold, rainy night.”
I take the shot glass he holds out to me, swallowing the lump that’s suddenly formed in my throat.
I don’t cook. But I do know about chicken and rice. It’s a classic low country dish that’s been around as long as anyone can remember. You simmer a bunch of veggies, rice, and chicken together in a huge pot. Sounds simple, but if you do it right, it actually requires a lot of effort. As evidenced by the countertop beside the range: it’s littered with cutting boards, measuring cups, the crispy skins of onions.
Greyson put real work into this. And thought. And care.
It’s his grandmother’s recipe.
Also, he poured me wine. Granted, a teeny tiny bit of it. Two sips at most. But he’s not being judge-y about me having some, and I appreciate that. So damn much.
In his own way, Grey is being supportive. Being there for me. And look how much better I feel. I need to take Olivia’s advice and go to that prenatal yoga class already. Build a support system there, too.
Greyson taps his glass against mine. “Cheers, Julia. I’m really glad everything went well today.”
“Me too. Thanks again for having me. And for knocking me up, I guess. Who would’ve thought we’d make such an A-plus fetus?”
