I give a half-smile. Clearly, he’s decided to remind me of our respective roles and boundaries. “You don’t have to say it every morning, noon, and night, Mr. Grayson.”
“But I mean it,” he says, mouth settling into a stubborn line.
I pick up the slice of bread and bite into it, just to stop myself from glaring. Then I realize by the really shoddy job of jelly-spreading that he made fresh toast for me. The idea of Mr. Grayson figuring out the toaster to make me toast fills me with giddy joy.
“You said you wanted something from me,” he says, coming straight to the point. “Something to do with your cousin’s wedding?”
I nod, make a big deal of chewing, wipe my mouth with a napkin—all the while forming and discarding words. “Yeah.” I brace my arms on the table. “I need you to be my date to the wedding reception.” I let the words hang between us for long seconds before I add, “Like a fake plus one, I mean.”
He stills, his grey eyes locked on me. Tension spreads through his shoulders.
It’s clear I’ve stunned him with my proposition. Is it so out of the realm of possibility that I want his company? Or is it that he can’t stand mine?
He rubs a thumb over his jaw. “Isn’t there someone else you’d rather go with? Someone your age?”
“No,” I say simply. “There isn’t.” I push the plate noisily and fold my arms on the smooth grain. “I don’t like boys my age.”
There’s a curious glint in his eyes I want to feed and fuel. “Men, you mean?”
I shrug, a flutter of excitement dancing in my belly. “Most of them act like immature, selfish boys, so I can’t make the distinction. And I’ve never met one that remotely tempts me.”
It’s true, though I can’t clarify that he’s the reason I don’t even register men. None of them could hold a candle to Mr. Grayson anyway. My sexuality has been firmly stamped with his name, not that I’ve done anything but imprint him into my voice and heart every time I narrate a new erotic romance.
He taps a circle around the coffee mug, and I get the sense he’s fighting himself. “Not even a single date?”
Every inch of me screams with triumph at the question—clearly against his better instincts. I take a long breath and release it, clasping my chin in a dreamy pose. “Not even for a cup of coffee. You know how much of a ho I am for good coffee.”
He blinks but doesn’t say anything. The tapping circles on the wood continue, growing in intensity, mirroring my heartbeat.
I continue, a little shocked at my own slyness. “Sophie keeps threatening to make me a Never Been Kissed T-shirt, like that old romcom.”
This time there’s no doubting the curiosity that dawns in those silver-grey eyes. “You have never been kissed,” he says, before cutting his gaze away.
In profile, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows is noticeable. That delicate thread between us buzzes.
“I know, I’m like the biggest walking cliché at my age, but I’m waiting for someone special to offload my—”
The yellow fat-bee mug rattles hard on the table, cutting me off.
Heat climbs up my neck and cheeks.
Did I go too far? Was I too obvious with the strategic TMI?
Fear spikes in my throat and I try to swallow past it. I can’t pedal back now, not even to retain the status quo. “Mr. Grayson, I—”
“We’re going dangerously off topic, little bird,” he says, a gruff edge to his tone.
I slump back in the chair as relief and fresh warmth chase away the fear. It’s the name he coined for me years ago, although he hasn’t used it in a while.
“Right,” I say, pasting a sheepish smile.
It’s damned hard being this take-charge woman when all I want is to crawl into his lap and let him have his way with me. “Sorry. You’re such a good listener.” I play with the ends of my braid. “I guess I got carried away, looking for some old-fashioned wisdom. You are of a different generation, after all,” I add, sounding just ditzy enough.
A laugh barrels out of him. It’s loud and hearty and so sudden I nearly fall out of my chair.
When I look up, breath suspended, his head’s thrown back, the corded veins in his neck stretched tight. The edges of his eyes crinkle and laugh lines carve across his sharp features.
I stare helplessly, my body buffeted by the beautiful sound of his laughter.
