I glare at him but pick up my fork. The apple pie is warm and sweet, the crust flaky and buttered. It’s the best thing I’ve tasted in months.
“So,” Grayson says, watching me eat with an intensity that makes me self-conscious. “Saturday mornings. What time?”
“Ten.” I take another bite of pie. “And this is just temporary. Until you find a new nanny.”
“Of course.” But there’s something in his smile that tells me he doesn’t believe that any more than I do.
When we finally finish, our waitress brings the check. I reach for it, but Grayson snatches it first.
“I said I’d buy you dinner,” I protest.
“And I said I’d fix your car.” He pulls out his wallet and leaves enough cash to cover the bill plus a generous tip. Then he looks at me with a grin. “You may think I’m a jerk, but I’m not that bad.”
Heat rushes to my face, and I look away, suddenly very interested in the pattern on the napkin holder.
Our waitress comes by to collect the payment and beams at us. “You two have a wonderful night!”
“We will, thank you,” Grayson says smoothly.
As we stand to leave, he holds out his hand. “I’ll need your keys.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“So my mechanic can pick up your car from the hospital parking lot in the morning.”
My hand instinctively moves to my bag, then stops. “I can just bring it to the shop myself.”
“Miranda—”
“I appreciate the offer, but I can handle it.” I start walking toward the door, avoiding the conversation entirely. “Where’s your car?”
He follows me out into the night, clearly not fooled by my deflection. “Hospital parking lot.” He gestures across the street. “And you’re being difficult again.”
“I’m not being difficult.”
“You are.” He’s already heading toward the crosswalk. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“I can just drive my own car—”
“You’re exhausted, and it’s after midnight.” He glances back at me. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
I want to argue, but he’s right. I’m too tired. The thought of getting behind the wheel and navigating through the city streets feels overwhelming right now. I follow him across the street to the hospital parking lot.
His car is something out of some luxury car magazine, a dark color with a sleek shape. It’s as expensive inside as it looks outside. Leather seats, that new car smell, dashboard that looks like it belongs in a spaceship. I slide into the passenger seat and immediately feel out of place.
Grayson starts the engine with a smooth purr and pulls out of the parking lot. “Where to?”
I give him my address, trying not to notice how good he looks behind the wheel. How his hands grip it with casual confidence. How the streetlights play across his features as we drive through the empty streets.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking at me.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” His mouth curves into a smile. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”
“Your ego is suffocating.”
He laughs, and the sound fills the small space between us.
