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“San, pass me the eggs,” she playfully demanded in her quirky totally fake British accent, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
With grace and precision, her fingers poised like a dancer, she expertly cracked them open.In that moment, her vibrant energy reminded me of a hummingbird—constantly in motion, a blur of wings and rich colors, buzzing with an insatiable thirst and zest for life.
She had an extraordinary way of embracing life to the fullest, a quality I cherished deeply.It was one of the many reasons she captivated my heart.Her beauty radiated from within, reflecting her kind and vibrant soul, filling every room she entered with it.
Her enthusiasm was infectious, and being around her brought a sense of joy and vitality to everyone around her.Greyson watched her as he leaned against the kitchen counter, his arms folded over his bare chest, a bemused smile playing on his lips as he watched our antics.
I’d thrown a glance his way and met his gaze that held a softness reserved only for moments like these.Moments when it was just us, no audience, no stage, only the rhythm of our hearts playing the perfect symphony of love.
I love you, he mouthed before walking toward her and kissing the side of her neck.“You know what I want for breakfast?”
“Nope.”She smirked.“You’re not setting me on the island to eat my pussy.I refuse.”
“You sure?”he asked while I slowly began to clean it, knowing he was about to lay her on top so we could eat before one of us fucked her.
“But I haven’t tasted you since ...”
“Last night,” she replied, almost shivering.“We could do this after we have breakfast, Grey.You know I have to eat right after I wake up.”
Grey nodded, knowing it was part of her recovery—her structured eating—and we couldn’t interrupt it.We helped her cook so we could get on with our day.Her relationship with food was fragile, just like the one she used to have with her mother.
I blink, the sound of sizzling bacon and the aroma of fresh coffee blending with the scent of dew-kissed lavender, wafting through the open window brings me back to the present.The house is quiet.The only sounds are the steady chop of my knife against the cutting board and the soft sizzle of bacon in the pan.
The biography lies there on the table, waiting to be read.I glance at it once, then turn back to the kitchen.I add the vegetables to the griddle before I crack the eggs open.
From behind, the sound of Greyson stirring interrupts the silence—the whisper of fabric and the gentle thud of his feet on the wooden floor.I focus on the omelet, hesitating to turn around, but his presence—powerful and electrifying—fills the room, seeping into every corner.
“Smells good,” he rasps, his voice textured like sandpaper, rough from sleep.
I shrug nonchalantly, not trusting myself to keep my voice from wavering.An awkward silence stretches between us, taut as a violin string, threatening to snap.The scent of bacon and coffee, Greyson’s silhouette in the kitchen—it’s all strikingly familiar, cuttingly painful.
As he lingers behind me, an undeniable tension fills the space, like an invisible barrier separating us.But then, in a bittersweet rush,her memoryfloods my thoughts.And I can almost feel her presence, a gentle comfort that eases the ache in my heart.If only I could see her one more time.
But what would I do?Beg her not to leave us, to come back to us, to ...Is she even around?
“Coffee?”I offer, breaking the silence.
“Please,” he responds, his voice carrying a touch of vulnerability.The awkwardness of our situation is momentarily interrupted by the shrill ring of a phone.
Greyson sighs before he reaches for his phone.“Yeah?”he grumbles, his tone rough and tinged with frustration as he answers the call.
My gaze flits over him, taking in his attire—or lack thereof.Dressed in nothing but a pair of sweats, his bare torso becomes a mesmerizing canvas of lean muscles, honed to perfection.Elaborate tattoos grace his skin, artistry that weaves together silent stories.I wish I had been the one inking his skin.Maybe one day he’ll forgive me and let me do it, mark him in places no one has touched him.
Oh the things I could do to him while my stylus marks him with songs and lyrics made out of the love we once shared.
Grey’s head falls into a seesaw of nods and shakes.“Sorry, it was ...No, Dad.I’m perfectly fine.He wants to talk aboutthe bookand ...”He cradles the phone against his ear.“As I told Piper, if I need something, I’ll call my sponsor.Yes, in Luna Harbor.How do you know?”
A scoff slips from his lips.“I love you guys, but the meddling is maddening.Yes, thank you for having the helicopter on standby.Talk to you soon, Dad.”
“Everything okay?”I dare to ask.
Greyson’s green eyes lock onto mine.The frustration in his gaze is tangible—raw.“They’re worried because I haven’t called them to tell them I left Malibu with you.I don’t know how the fuck they found out.”
This is partially my fault.Once you contact the Deckers, everyone knows what’s happening.“Sorry.I needed a jet, so I called your cousin Nate.”
He nods as if understanding.“They just wanted to verify I’m doing okay and don’t need to head back home.”
“Have breakfast, after that ...”I begin, my voice trailing off, left hanging in the air like an unfinished thought.There’s little I can provide in return.He already has contingency plans, a helicopter on standby should he need to leave me.
