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He doesn’t respond, but I can see the muscles in his jaw twitch.
“You don’t want me around. You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to get traded. I get it. But frankly, I need the money, so if you just do what I say, we’ll be fine and I can make rent.”
I’m putting up a good front, right? Sounding like a take-charge sort of person, even though I feel one hundred percent the opposite?
Even though what I really want to do is pull him into the coat closet and play seven minutes in heaven.
I do need this job. And I will be good at it. I have to prove to myself that I’m not doomed to repeat my terrible mistakes over and over again.
“Not gonna happen.”
I brace myself for a stand-off, and I pull out the fighting words. “Then you don’t get any pie.”
There’s a flicker of a change on his face, but he quickly reels his emotion in. “Maybe I don’t like pie.”
I lean in, ready to die on this hill. “Everyone likes pie.”
“Gray?” It’s Dallas’s voice behind me, but Gray and I are having a staring contest, and he doesn’t want to lose.
For my part, I’m simply trying not to melt into a puddle right here on the porch.
Mercifully, Dallas steps into the space beside me and reaches out to shake Gray’s hand, giving me an excuse to look away and mentally regroup.
“I see you’ve met Eloise,” Dallas says.
Gray shrugs and grunts in lieu of an actual response.
“Come on, Gray. Use your words,” I tease.
He turns, unamused, looks at me full in my eyes, and it’s almost too much. I smile big to cover up the fact that I’m not breathing.
I might’ve met my match.
If he can leave me feeling this undone with a simple stare, how am I going to feel if I ever have an actual conversation with him? Or literally do get locked in an enclosed space with him, like a coat closet or an elevator or the back seat of a car . . . ?
“Let’s go inside,” Dallas says, his voice switching off my inner monologue. “I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
“Actually, uh, maybe I should just head out.” Gray hesitates on the porch. “This was stupid.”
For some inexplicable reason, I blurt out, “Oh, please don’t go!” and it hangs there for what feels like a week.
What do I care if Grayson Hawke eats Sunday dinner with my family or not? I do my level best to affix a nonchalant expression on my face.
“I mean. . .” I try to recover, “you, uh, you. . .”
“You came all this way,” Dallas says, saving me. “At least have some pie.”
Gray’s eyes land on mine, and I smirk. “Oh, he doesn’t like pie.”
“I love pie,” he says, looking incredulous. He does this without breaking eye contact.
Ooh. He’s good.
Or bad.
Both are viable options for me. I’m not picky.
Dallas looks at me, then back at Gray, and then steps out of the way, motioning for him to come inside. I’m honestly shocked the man showed up here, since he knows nobody except Dallas and seems like he’d rather be having a root canal than eating dinner with a bunch of strangers, but who am I to complain?
