We eat in silence once the food comes, occasionally swapping glances, letting it sink in that we’re in each other’s presence after all this time. I’m sure I’m coming off dazed and disinterested, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Even though it’s awkward, I’m still so interested that it’s probably a little unhealthy.
I want to ask him about Lily, about his life, about what he’s been up to for the last twelve years—anything to break the tension that’s settled between us. But I struggle to find the words to ask without being overly invasive. He’s married, and I have no business asking him anything about the life he’s lived that I haven’t been involved in.
“Oh, shit. Rylee has my bag.”
“I told our crew to get it out of your rental car and bring it to the house,” he tells me. “Brandon offered for you and Rylee to stay with us once he realized you two were staying in town. I’msure that would’ve been the case anyway had Rylee told him you were both coming.”
My stomach drops again at the mention of me and Rylee staying at the band’s house.
“Now that I’m thinking about it, she probably didn’t say anything because we were supposed to be out of town right now. When we got the opportunity to play this pop-up, though, we knew we couldn’t turn it down.”
Fuck. Me.
I’ll be around Grayson throughout this entire trip.
There won’t be any relief—the guilty pleasure will be a constant for the entirety of the time I’m here.
Before I have too much time to dwell on that fact, Grayson pays the check. I don’t even have the chance to pay for my half before he stands up and asks me if I’m ready to leave. I nod and rise from my side of the booth.
We are absolutely not on a date. He probably still sees you as the annoying girl who lived across the street and used to basically stalk him.
Back in the car, we drive into the Palisades, winding through a neighborhood of luxurious homes.
The car ride is quiet—and not the comfortable quiet that comes with years of knowing someone and not having to say anything to communicate. It’s the uncomfortable quiet that comes from not knowing what the other person is thinking, or what to say to cut the tension. The kind of quiet that makes me wonder if I should really be staying here at all.
Is it too late for me to get that hotel room?
After what seems like an eternity, he pulls into the driveway of the biggest house in this neighborhood, tucked away at the end of the cul-de-sac. It’s got a modern stucco exterior with a Spanish-style roof and what I’m assuming are some pretty incredible ocean views during the day. I can hear the sound ofthe waves crashing in the dark, and it sends a chill down my spine.
Even at night, it’s one of the most gorgeous houses I’ve ever seen. Grayson pulls his car into the monstrosity of a garage and, once again, opens my door for me to lead me inside.
To no one’s surprise, it’s stunning, too—like something out of a luxury real estate magazine.
After a full house tour including the band's practice room, the incredible balconies, and the resort-style backyard with a pool and sauna, Grayson leads me down a hallway that he says houses most of the bedrooms.
“This is your room,” he says, gesturing to the door. “Mine is next door, if you need anything. I’m sure Rylee will be in Eric’s room across the hall when they get back from the bar.”
As I begin to reach for the door and retreat to get ready for bed and gather myself, Grayson hugs me again. I nestle my face into his shoulder, more conflicted than ever, but at the same time, never wanting to let him go. He pulls away and studies me again.
Why hasn’t he said anything about Lily yet?
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he whispers, placing a lingering hand against my cheek and letting it trail down to my exposed collar bone.
“I know,” I say, reveling in the weight of his touch near my neck, wanting to wear his hand like a necklace but knowing I can’t cross that line.
And then, quieter: “Good night, Grayson.”
“Good night, beautiful.”
Chapter four
"I Need Help" - Nerv
Grayson
Iattempt to sleep the night after the show, but instead find myself awake thinking about Mia Alexander. I’m laying on my stomach with my head shoved under my pillow, trying to quiet all the thoughts swirling around in my mind that are making sleep impossible.
I can’t stop picturing her. Every damn second, she’s there. The curve of her mouth when she smiles. The fire in her eyes. Theway her body moves when she thinks no one is watching. But I can’t help it. I’m always watching her and—because I clearly need a lesson in subtlety—I think she knows it.
