“You’re a single guy, Grayson. I was expecting moldy cheese and three-week-old leftovers.” I spoon more of the buttery, lemony liquid over his chicken and rice and set his plate down. “Come eat.”
“You cook one meal in this kitchen, and now you’re giving orders like you own it,” he grumbles, opening his beer and sitting across from me.
“Is Chef Grayson feeling threatened?”
The thick sinews of his stubbled neck shift as he takes a long, tired drink from the bottle. “Boston, you’ve been threatening me since day one.”
“I can safely say you started it.”
His amber gaze is warmly assessing as he murmurs, “And here you are, still at it.”
It seems like there are multiple meanings lying beneath it, meanings I want to peel apart and latch onto.
“I think you’ll forgive me when you try this chicken.”
“Talking a big game, per usual.” He takes a long sniff ofhis steaming plate before cutting off a giant bite and stuffing it in his mouth.
His eyes close as he chews, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s savoring the flavors or trying to hide disgust.Finally, he swallows, and there’s a pleased tilt to his eyes when they pop back open. “Your home should flood more often.”
He might as well have told me I just got a promotion. I try not to grin like a dork as I dig in. “I’m glad you like it.”
If I thought his flood comment was flattering, it’s nothing compared to when he says, “Tastes like my mom’s cooking.” He shovels another heaping forkful. “She’d always have a nice hot meal waiting for me and my dad when we got back from the farm…until she couldn’t anymore.”
For a moment, I fear the memory might come with sadness, but he’s practically humming with contentment across the table. The satisfied “mmm” sounds he makes every few bites fill me with an insane, silly pleasure.
“How old were you when your dad started the farm?”
“Twenty. Middle of college,” he says after a massive swallow. Half his plate is already gone.
“Did you always know you wanted to work there?”
He chuckles. “I was determinednotto work there. That washisadventure. I just helped out around classes and during breaks.”
“What did you want to do?”
“Finance.”
I choke on my food.
His fork pauses. “That surprise you?”
He says it like itshouldsurprise me. And, well,of courseit does. Sticking the man across from me in a fluorescently lit cubicle wearing an endless rotation of suits would be like putting a lion with rabies in a cat carrier.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Did twenty-year-old youknow that career path involves hair gel, regular beard trims, and cologne?”
He grunts. “I trim my beard. It’s neat.”
“Not Wall Street neat.”
“You got a problem with my facial hair?”
Yes.I want you to rub it all over my skin.
“No. It lends itself nicely to the whole disgruntled bear image.”
He shakes his head, muttering something that sounds like, “youmake me disgruntled.”
Then he says, “To answer your question, no, I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I did well in school, and wanted a way out of Garnet Shores. To go have an adventure in a big city. Make lots of money.”
