I sit back down because I can barely process what just happened, and Grayson sits beside me, close on the couch.I nearly jolt when he drapes his arm across the back of my seat. A second later, his hand settles on my shoulder.
It stays there.For therest of the game.Like this is normal, like I belong there, like he didn’t just rearrange the wrinkles of my brain on a kiss cam in front of thousands, if not millions when you include the broadcast, of people.
I should probably be watching the fourth quarter. The Buffs are up, but CSU is still being annoyingly scrappy about it. Actual game developments are happening. ButI spend most of the rest of the night hyperaware of the weight of Grayson’s arm around me, the lazy brush of his thumb over my shoulder, and the fact that every now and then, when I shout at the field, he laughs under his breath and pulls me a little closer.
What thefuckis happening?
Chapter 27
Carly
Seven Weeks
By the timewe get home, I’ve gone from confused to just… happy, just warm and a little tipsy and stupidly, helplessly happy.
Maybe it’s the beer from the box. Maybe it’s the fact that CU won. Maybe it’s the way Grayson kissed me on a giant screen in front of half of Colorado and then kept his arm around me like he had every right to.Maybe I’ve just finally lost my mind.
The house is quiet without Penelope in it.Too quiet, almost.
Grayson tosses his keys on the counter in the kitchen before loosening his jacket and looking over at me.
“You want a glass of wine?” he asks.
The answer is obviously yes.
He pours us both a glass of white while I run upstairs and change into tight spandex shorts and an oversized shirt, and I meet him in the living room, folding myself into one side of the couch while he takes the middle, close enough that our knees nearly touch.
For a minute, we just sit there with the low lamp on and the whole house hushed around us, the kind of quiet that makes every glance feel louder. I half expect him to turn on the television and watch something, but he doesn't.
I turn my glass slowly in my hands. “So.”
His mouth twitches. “So.”
“Are you always that public with your affection?”
He leans back, one arm stretched along the top of the couch, wine in his other hand. “That specific question feels targeted.”
“It is.”
A soft laugh leaves him, but it doesn’t last long. The amusement shifts into something more introspective.“No,” he says after a second. “Not always.”
I tuck one leg under myself, angling a little more toward him. “Then what was that?”
His eyes move over my face, hesitating.“That,” he says slowly, “was me not feeling like doing something halfway.”
That is such a Grayson answer that I huff out a laugh. “Of course it was.”
He smiles into his glass, but it fades, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter.“The public part of my life used to feel easier.”
I wait.
He rubs his thumb once over the stem of his wineglass. “When I was younger, it just came with the territory. CU, then the Broncos, then the company getting bigger. People recognizingme. Cameras around. Commentary gigs. It was a lot, but it was manageable.”
“Because you were single?” I ask.
His mouth pulls to one side. “Because I was dumb.”
That gets another small laugh out of me.
