For a fleeting moment, I’m glad. It’s the same moment that I meet his gaze again and find it steady and sure, void of the mocking light and irritation I’ve come to know.
“Eliza, you good?” JJ’s voice shatters the fragile peace.
Grayson pulls away to glance at his friend, though he stays crouched by my side.
“I’m—” big breath, “fine.”
I am.
My body feels like it was hit by a freight train, but nothing is broken. My ass will bruise, and my hands have a little road rash, but there are no real injuries.
JJ crouches on my opposite side, concerned eyes running over me. “Shit, that was not supposed to happen.”
“What the hell were you thinking?” Grayson’s tone, which isn’t directed at me, but his friend, has me sitting upstraighter. He sounds angry, so vastly different from the calm he just exuded.
JJ runs a frustrated hand across his jaw. “You’ve never gone that hard into a pick. Thought you’d see her.”
“I could’ve seriously hurt her.”
“Yeah, I realize that now. It was a bad idea?—"
“You think?” Grayson interrupts sharply. “You don’t normally have those, but that?—"
“Hey.” I glance between Grayson’s stormy expression and JJ’s sorry one, settling on Grayson—this man who was just my lifeline, who’s still crouching above me like hecares. For the second time in a matter of days, the neatly defined image of him in my mind doesn’t seem so bounded, the edges blurring as that picture tries to morph. All my thoughts start to jumble, but this isn’t the time. I don’t even know if theyshouldbe jumbling.
Shoving them back into their organized boxes, I say, “I’m fine.”
Both of them look at me, still in a pathetic heap on the pavement.
Handle yourself.
“I lost my breath and needed a second to get it back.” I start to stand, and they move back, making space for me. Grayson’s hand is the first drop down. I trace it to that chiseled arm and up to his face, then jump to Anson’s face high above it.
Handle. Yourself.
Ignoring his offer, I push to my feet, forcing a smile through the aches. “You shouldn’t be upset with him. I would’ve suggested the plan if he hadn’t.”
This doesn’t appease him. His mouth parts to argue back, but I beat him to it.
“Besides,” my smile turns genuine, “it got us the win.”
The stern lines of Grayson’s face slowly morph into incredulity, and I twist the knife.
“What time do we start on Monday?”
12
GRAYSON
The sunrise paintsthe clouds with bright reds and fiery oranges. It’s the Garnet Shores Special. A stunner. The kind that stamps itself in your memory and resurfaces whenever you reminisce on home.
But the only image my memory currently cares about is Boston’s long, toned legs in those little black running shorts. It doesn’t stand alone. There’s also the unfiltered triumph every time she scored a point. The poorly veiled interest in those expressive eyes when I stripped away my shirt. The challenge set in her small jaw when she agreed to play with us—the same kind that usually accompanies her insults. That wide vulnerability when I ran her over and she lost her breath.
Over the past two days, I’ve revisited it all more times than I’m proud to admit, and every time, JJ’s words ghosted along with it.
She’s not Mackenzie.
He’d said it when we got back to Anson’s estate, while Lala ran off to retrieve her soccer ball. Anson was hogging the kitchen, giving us a minute alone.
