Why isn’t he at the farm?
Sliding from bed, I throw on sweatpants and a bra beneath my tee-shirt, check my face for drool, and pad into the hallway.
The rich aroma of coffee hits me first, followed by sizzling butter. Then I’m struck by the sight of Grayson standing over the stove with his back to me, hair mussed, Dave cradled in one arm while he works a spatula with the other. He’s wearing a cut-off that hangs off his broad back, every muscle curled around my feathered nemesis on full display.
If I thought thesoundshe made were nice, this is…a visual blessing.
The floorboards creak under my next step, and he twists.
“Morning.”
Dave’s neck cranes, those beady little eyes spotting me. I might hate this duck, but my ovaries want to explode at the sight of him nestled in Grayson’s arm like a baby.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt your private time.”
“Don’t worry. Dave gets to hang with me all the time. He’s just helping me make breakfast.” He turns back around. “You gluten-free or anything like that?”
“No,” I answer, a little dazed.
Grayson is making mebreakfast. After all he did last night.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I ask, edging into the kitchen.
“Heading in late today.” He flips what looks like a pancake. There’s a bottle of maple syrup and a bowl of fruit on the eat-in counter, and a carton of cream next to a pot of coffee and an empty mug. “Team’s there and everything looks fine after the storm, so there’s no rush.” Hejerks his head toward the coffee machine. “Rest is yours if you want it.”
I have caffeine every morning. Of course I want it.
But I don’t move.
Because the sudden realization that hits me is paralyzing.
I wantthis man.Him, who’s going into work late just to make me breakfast, who’s going out of his way to take care of me.
I want him beyond what he did to me on the beach. I want him beyond our stupid digs, our banter, the tension we’re both trying to deny.
And no imaginary rickety stone wall is going to change my mind.
I can’t pretend he doesn’t make me feel both safeandstrong—calm when I need it, andaliveevery other minute I’m with him. I can’t pretend he doesn’t feelright—makemefeel right—despite being the rugged, boorish, provocative antithesis to my expectations.
Which means he’s going to follow me back to the city and haunt my sorry ass, and I’m just going to have to make space for that misery until eventually—months later, probably—I forget about him.
Because that’s the only way Grayson will be with me outside of Garnet Shores. The last two weeks have made it clear that he’s not interested in pursuing anything serious. And I’m not going to try to convince him otherwise, because despite this realization that he’s something,someone, rare in this world…I just can’t see how we would work. Not when I’m two hours away and he works seven-day weeks, just like me.
I owe myselfmore. Grayson deserves more, too.
Well, at least he’s uncovered what your actual type is.
What a pathetic consolation prize.
“Don’t have any sugar, unfortunately.” Grayson’s voice jolts me back to the moment.
“Cream is great,” I say, composing myself as I move to pour a coffee. He flips the last two pancakes onto a plate piled with steaming, pillowy goodness. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“Do what? Make myself breakfast?” He gently sets Dave down and carries the plate to the eat-in counter.
I trail behind him as he rummages through a cabinet. “You’re telling me you make yourself pancakes on the regular?”
“Sure do.”
