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“You must be hungry,” I say apologetically. “Why don’t I order us a pizza? Least I can do.”
“Pizza sounds great,” he says casually. “As long as there’s no pineapple. Please tell me you don’t put fruit on your pizza.”
I laugh. “Why would I do that? People who put pineapple on their pizza are probably serial killers. It’s right up there with mint ice-cream.”
“Right? Who thought it was a good idea to make ice-cream taste like toothpaste? It shouldn’t be allowed to be sold in stores.”
He claps his hands. “Okay, then let’s order. I’m starved.”
I’m starved too… for so many reasons.
As I google a pizza place around here, I find myself wondering how I thought being friends with Grayson was ever going to work. So far, it isn’t easy.
I can do this.I just need to press pause on these thoughts that are making my head spin. Grayson and I can just be friends. Because being around him is too much fun to stop.
SEVEN
YOU CAN GET THAT IMAGE RIGHT OUT OF YOUR HEAD.
Grayson
The pizza Sierra ordered is five-star. So is her company. We cleaned up the mess from the afternoon of work and are now sitting on her back porch eating deep-dish. Somewhere along the way, the topic of conversation moved to go-go dancing, so that’s where we’re at now.
“Admit it. You’re a secret go-go dancer,” I say, a smirk taking over my face. “That’s what you’re doing over here late at night when the blinds are closed.”
“Yes, Grayson, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” she says, shaking her head. “Would you like me to show you?”
Holy shit, I absolutely would.
She must see the surprised expression on my face because her eyes flash awhat-did-I-just-saylook as she playfully bats at my shoulder. “I did not actually mean that, Gray. You can get that image right out of your head.”
She called me Gray. I liked it. A lot.
I sit back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. Sitting out here with Sierra feels relaxed, even normal. It feels like it did in Miami, before things between us got weird. She looks like she feels the same way, like her guard is down. Finally.
She looks good too, in a faded Rolling Stones T-shirt with a pair of cut-off jean shorts, both splattered with paint. She put her hair up in a ponytail when we got to work on the house. My gaze drops to her neck, a part of her body I am dying to kiss again.
I wonder how many guys have kissed her there since I did in Miami. Is she seeing anyone? Has she ever been in love?
I guarantee that any guy she’s ever hooked up with has never devoured her body the way I can.I trace the rim of my glass, pushing all thoughts of Sierra with another man far from my mind.
I know she’s off-limits. But fuck, I’d like to worship her body, make her feel better than she ever has. Make her scream. But that can’t happen. So instead, I’ll be her friend. I’ll enjoy nights like this one with her, I’ll be the person she turns to when she needs something or someone to talk to.
“So, tell me,” I ask her. “How did we both grow up in Reed Point and not know each other?”
She crinkles her brows. “I don’t knoweveryonein Reed Point, do you?” she asks over the rim of her wine glass. The almost-empty pizza box has been cast aside and Sierra has poured us each a glass of red. Haven Harbor is so quiet at this time of night that it feels deserted, like it’s just Sierra and I and the stars in the sky.
“I might,” I tease. “I’m a pretty big deal around here. I’m sure you’ve heard.”
She scoffs. “You’re ridiculous. Jake and I didn’t actually grow up in Reed Point. We moved here when Jake was 12 and I was 10. We grew up in Mayberry, a little town famous for… wait for it… chili dogs. They have a chili dog eating contest every summer and it’s the highlight of the year. Sad I know.” She shrugs, staring into my eyes. “Anyways, then we moved to Haven Harbor and I think living here kept us removed from most of the kids our age. We didn’t go to White Harbor beach on weekends, we just hung out around here where there’s pretty much… no one.”
“It’s a pretty great place to grow up.”
“It was,” she says, with a small smile that fades quickly. I watch her start to shrink into her herself, but then she changes the topic, switching the focus onto me. “How about you… tell me a little about your family. Any siblings?”
“One sister. She’s four years younger than me. Her name is Kyla,” I share, reaching for the wine bottle, refilling my glass. “She’s going to school to become a physiotherapist.”
She nods, absentmindedly tracing a finger around the rim of her wine glass. “So, I guess that means neither of you are taking over the family business?”
