I’d categorize it as bachelor living, but that’s not entirely fair. I’ve seen guys’ homes with speakers galore, couches stained fromwaytoo much NSFW activity, and a fine layer of dust on floors that have never been properly cleaned. This isn’t Kyle’s manicured, modern apartment, but it isn’t gross, either. Just…bare.
It’s the home of someone who literally comes here to sleep and eat dinner, and spends almost every other hour in his day working.
A car pulls up outside, and Grayson walks through the door just as I set the rice on the table. Dark circles cut under his eyes, telling the story of a man who was my savior until three in the morning, woke early to solve more of my problems, then busted his ass at work before returning home at—I peek at the oven clock—eight-thirty at night.
Yet somehow, his exhaustion lifts when he steps in and takes in the scene. “You made dinner?”
Dave scoots in behind him as he saunters closer, tossing his keys on the counter. He doesn’t have anything else on him. No water bottle. No lunch box. He just…raw-dogged it all day.
Now that I think of it, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him bring lunch to the farm. The few times I’ve passed the warehouse during break, it’s always sandwich wrappers and chip bags, or take-out on the table. What was he expecting to eat for dinner? Eggs with maple syrup and a soft apple?
Men.
“Had to top your pancakes,” I say.
“My pancakes are damn good,” he murmurs, wandering over to the table.
“They are. So is my chicken.”
I’m no chef, but there are few things I’ve learned to whip up when I’m trying to impress, and this herby lemon butter chicken isit.Kyle loved it. His friends loved it. Jane loved it, maybe as much as she loves being a lying, weaselly, fake-as-her-tan friend.
Grayson’s about to be the firstdeservingperson to mouthgasm from it.
I hope. Because I don’t actually know what his food preferences are, aside from sugary, floury treats and coffee.
I scrutinize his expression as he surveys the spread of green beans, rice, and chicken. It’s frustratingly neutral, until his head bobs in a slow, approving nod.
“Alright, Boston. Let’s see what you got.” He lifts his ball cap and shakes his hand through his stiff, sweaty hair. His hand freezes. “I, uh, should probably shower first.”
Sheepishness is funny on him, so poignantly out of place among all those gruff lines.
I doubt I’m the first woman he’s met after a long day. Maybe they expected him to impress them with a little curated gentility, but this isn’t a date. It’s me putting Grayson out of his home and trying to look afterhim, for once.
Plus, I don’t want some manufactured, glossed-over version of him.
I start piling his plate high. “Do you normally shower, shave, and put on a tux for dinner after work?”
“Dave appreciates it when I’m presentable.”
I roll my eyes and nod toward the fridge. “Not sure if you’re a cold-beer-after-work guy, but I picked up some options.”
He peers at me for a moment before heading to the fridge and opening it wide. “You went grocery shopping,” he states.
“I did.”
It’s like he’s staring at an alien spaceship and not a full refrigerator. Tentatively, he rummages around, bottles clinking.
“What’s this?” He produces a baby pink can.
“A seltzer water.”
A groove appears between his brows as he turns it over in his hand.
“You should try it. I won’t tell anyone how much you love girly drinks. It can be our secret.”
He hits me with a dry look before returning it to the shelf and producing a beer. “I didn’t leave much here for you to work with.”
Why does that almost sound like an apology?
