Page 37 of Peaches & Pistols

I don’t bother correcting him, he’d get too much satisfaction landing his jibe.

“Yep.”

“Maybe I’ll suggest to Connor that the other employees come to dinner too. You know, team bonding.”

He’s such a shit-starter. Always has been, the punk.

“See what happens,” I grit between clenched teeth.

His laughter doesn’t fade even after I hang up.

13

The Trunk-or-Treat flyer from the elementary school mocks me from where I tossed it on my nightstand. Even in the sleep-darkened bedroom, I can see it perfectly.

A flurry of emotions fight for dominance and I’m too tired to sort through them tonight. Everly sleeps beside me, in full starfish position—her M.O.

If I toss and turn any more, she’ll wake up and then everyone will have a horrible day because when Everly’s cranky, you either hide, or end up right down in the pits with her.

I don’t have the option to hide from my six-year-old, and I’d rather not be a raging bitch today, so I get out of bed without ruffling the blankets, and tip toe from our quiet room.

I’m still not used to having a smartphone. The thing stresses me out more than it helps me, so I didn’t bother grabbing it on my way. I pad down the hall planning to make a cup of herbal tea when I stifle a scream.

“Oh my god, Greyson. You scared me,” I whisper, heart hammering like I’ve run a mile.

He doesn’t apologize. It’s not in his nature, and it’s his house. He can sit in the dark like a creeper if he wants to.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His deep voice is gritty from exhaustion.

I shake my head and sit at the opposite end of the sectional from his broad frame. It’s so seldom I’ve seen him casual. He typically wears a standard uniform of Wranglers, work boots at the store, cowboy boots at the ranch, and a white T-shirt under some variation of button up flannel. And a cowboy hat if I’m lucky.

As if he wasn’t already the walking embodiment of my most tortuous fantasies, he always rolls the sleeves of his damn flannel up his forearms. Is forearm porn a thing? Forearm foreplay? Forearm kink?

The jury is still out, but my vote is yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

But tonight is a sight I’ve only seen once or twice. Greyson in sweats. Thank god it’s dark because my heating face is a dead giveaway for how his physique affects me. Same type of white cotton T-shirt, but with grey sweatpants and bare feet.

Why is that the tipping point from hot to unbearably sexy? A barefoot Greyson scandalizes me like women flashing their ankles in the 1800s.

“Wanna talk about it?” he rumbles in the dark room, illuminated only by moonlight filtering in from the curtains and the hallway nightlight for the girls.

Strangely, I do want to talk about it. It’s something I’ve never told a soul.

We sit in comfortable silence as I gather my words and steel myself to let them free.

“Halloween was me and Charlie’s favorite holiday. We didn’t have a shiny happy family, so it made sense we didn’t have shiny happy holidays. Our parents rarely made any effort for Christmas, or even birthdays.” I pause, chewing on the inside of my lips, wading through the sludge of disappointment that was my childhood.

“Halloween was a night we could blend into whatever new town our parents had dragged us to. Concealed beneath costumes, we could be whatever we wanted to be.”

My mind flips through the years of costumes like a photo album, making me ache for my sister, but also grateful for having the time together we did.

“What did you dress up as?” Greyson asks, surprising me with his contribution to the conversation.

He’s more of a “how quickly can I end this interaction,” type of person than a “how can I keep this conversation flowing,” type of person.

“Mom was always cycling her wardrobe and was oblivious when we’d pilfer items from her discard piles. Over the year, we’d grab clothes that by October, we could turn into our costumes.” A chuckle escapes me, unbidden. “Thank god for home economics. We both took to arts and crafts like fish to water. Sewing was no issue for us, even at a young age.

“Some years we did coordinating costumes like cats, princesses, or ghosts. Other years, either because of materials on-hand, or differing ideas, we’d make them in secret and surprise each other with a big reveal the day of.” My repressed joy is bubbling up like a fizzy soda, as I giggle.