“Of course,” I echo, even though nothing about the way his fingers keep inching closer to my panty line feels particularly safe.
He trails a line of slow, open-mouthed kisses just below my jaw, his breath hot against my skin. I let out a quiet moan, unable to help myself.
“You keep making sounds like that, sweetheart,” he says softly against my neck. “And we’re not going anywhere. At least not with our clothes on.”
“You started it,” I whisper.
“Trust me, Mia,” he says, nipping lightly at my ear. “I fully plan on finishing it—with my face buried between your thighs and my name on your tongue.”
I let out a shaky breath, trying to gather what’s left of my self control as Grayson jogs around to the driver’s side. As soon as he climbs in, he glances at me with a grin that can ruin lives, knowing exactly the effect he just had on me—knowing I’m pretty much about to come apart in the passenger seat.
“Seatbelt, beautiful,” he says, buckling his own before he slides his hand to the gear shift—and then right back to my thigh like it belongs there. Spoiler alert: it does.
The Jeep rumbles to life and his “bitchin’ playlist” begins—starting withAdrenalineby Simple Creatures. Grayson drums the fingers of his free hand on the steering wheel as he drives, which happens to be the same way he kisses—fast, confident, and a little reckless. Wind tears through the topless Jeep as we speed towards Charleston’s historic district in the daydream kind of weather that makes it feel like we’re in a movie.
We park near a cluster of beachy, pastel colored houses, and Grayson jumps out to open my door before I could even touch the handle.
“You don’t always have to get my door for me, you know,” I smirk, secretly loving his chivalrous side.
“I plan to woo you all over this city today,” he says. “Don’t want you going anywhere.”
“You already have me!” I laugh, teasing him.
“I just want to make sure youstaymine.”
We walk the streets of the downtown area, Grayson’s hand never leaving mine. It looks like something out of a postcard. The smell of saltwater and jasmine fills the air as we admire the mossy oak trees and the incredible, historical architecture. He slips us into a local breakfast spot that he swears the internet says has the “best biscuits in Charleston.”
He charms the quirky cashier just enough to give us the best table in the place even though there’s a line out the door. I narrow my eyes as he slides into the booth across from me.
“I saw that,” I say, pointing my knife at him.
Grayson raises a brow and pouts, all innocence. “Saw what?”
“Don’t play coy. The smile. The lean-in. The winking. You flirted to get us this table.”
He picks up his second biscuit and breaks it open. “And it worked. You’re welcome.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m still smiling.
Damn this man and his effect on—everyone.
The food really is incredible, and somehow Grayson manages to look like a Calvin Klein ad while just licking jam from his thumb. I might’ve stared a little longer than I should have.
He catches me mid-gawk and chuckles. “Want me or the jam, baby girl?”
I throw a sugar packet at his head. But secretly, I could maul him right here.
After we finish brunch, we wander through a pop-up open-air market, fingers laced, Grayson’s thumb rubbing lazy circles against the back of my hand. We stop at a vendor who makes her own jewelry, and my eyes catch on a pair of wire-wrapped gemstone earrings. The saleswoman tells us the gem is calledlucky in loveas the aqua-green coloring shimmers in my hand. Grayson winks and, of course, buys them immediately, saying he fully intends to test that theory before the day is over.
We stroll down Bay Street towards the water, the sea breeze curling through my hair as we reach the pier. The waves crash against the coastline and I’m about to say something about how peaceful and perfect the day has been when a high-pitched squeal pierces the air.
“Oh. My. God. You’re Grayson Harris!”
We turn to see two teenage girls in oversized Catastrophically Charismatic t-shirts standing behind us, practically jumping up and down with excitement. Grayson smiles that patient, gracious smile I’ve come to recognize—the one he uses when being somewhat famous isn’t always convenient, but when he’s also reminded of how much influence he can have over people.
The girls are sweet, jittery, fumbling through a few questions and compliments—clearly trying not to lose their minds while meeting their idol. One of them keeps eyeing me, too, as if she recognizes me but can’t place where.
“You’re his girlfriend, right?” she blurts suddenly, earning a slap on the arm from her friend. “You’re Mia Alexander?”
