I straddle the line between good and evil before my love for this man overrules all rational thinking. “What’s her license plate number?”
Brandon’s brows knit as he glances at me, confused. “Why?”
“Just tell me.”
He sighs, taps a few keys, and then reads off Cameron’s license plate number. Worry that I’m making a mistake trickles through my veins when I jot it down, but the plan has already formed, and I do not back down when challenged.
Grayson returns to the van ten minutes later, his knocks unanswered. Anger and confusion pinches his face, and he clenches his jaw tight, as if holding back a torrent of words he knows he can’t take back once he releases them.
I meet him at the sliding door of the van, looking relaxed. He’s wound up tight enough for the both of us, so I won’t add to his frustration.
“She didn’t answer,” he says, like he isn’t wired up.
“She will,” I reply. “It’s not over yet.”
His lips twitch as his brow gets lost in his rigorous hairline. “What do you mean?”
I hold up the spark plugs I removed from Cameron’s car engine, dangling them as if they’re prize-winning fish. “She has a meeting tomorrow. Something important. She won’t want to miss it, so she will be more than willing to accept the help of anapparent”—I air quote my last word—“stranger if he’s her only means of transport.”
His eyes widen in surprise before another emotion I can’t decipher narrows them back to their normal width. He looks as torn as I feel, but instead of praising my brilliance, he reminds me that I usually play good cop. “You shouldn’t have done that, Mace.”
I follow him into the van, slot my backside in the passenger seat, and then fasten my belt. “Once she sees you, she will want to talk to you. We’ve just got to force the first contact.”
Force wasn’t the right word for me to use. It sinks Grayson’s shoulders further and sees him pulling out of the alleyway like I told him my water broke.
We head back to the apartment. The air between us is thick with everything. I’d like to tell Grayson that I’m here for him, that he’s not going through this alone, but then I remember that this isn’t about me. It’s about him and the steps he needs to take to heal.
“She still loves you,” I say quietly.
His grip on the steering wheel firms, but that is the start and end of his reply.
“I asked her if she had ever loved you, and she said, ‘Of course I love him. It’s Grayson. He is impossible not to love.’” I float my eyes over the scenery outside, hiding their watery appearance. “She said love, Grayson. Not loved. That’s why I took her spark plugs. It will only take you confronting her once for those feelings to come rushing back in.” I wet my suddenly dry lips as I remember the way my heart thumped when I first spotted him on the stoop of my apartment. “Love doesn’t die. You just learn to hide your feelings for what you believe is the greater good.”
When silence teems between us for the next several seconds, I glance over at Grayson. He appears to be watching the road, but I feel his eyes on me. He flicks them between the road and me until we arrive at the undercover parking lot of our building.
The cause of my weary bones is undeniable when I follow him to our apartment. The sun is dipping below the skyline, painting the living room windows with streaks of orange and violet. When we veer past Adeline’s apartment, I’m tempted to tell Grayson about how she wasn’t sick, but I think better of it. He has enough on his plate right now. He doesn’t need more.
Grayson unlocks the door, and I follow him inside. The scent of coffee and dried ink on paper greets us.
“Hungry?” His voice is casual despite the tension still hardening his jaw.
“Starving,” I admit. I haven’t eaten all day, and I am beyond famished.
We move around the cramped kitchen, falling into an easy rhythm. I wash the vegetables we chopped earlier this week while Grayson heats oil in a pan. The sizzle of the olive oil fills the silence. It’s domestic, but also intimate, and it sharpens the ache in my chest.
Grayson nudges me with his elbow, grinning when I grunt as if side-swiped by a truck. “I think they’re clean.”
I laugh after taking in the drowned vegetables. The carefree nature of my reply even surprises me. “You can never be too cautious. What looks shiny and clean can harbor something nasty on the inside.” I didn’t mean for my reply to come out so cautionary. It just occurred.
I glance at Grayson in silent apology before placing the vegetables in the microwave to steam, and then I gather the pre-cut chicken strips from the refrigerator and hand them to him.
We work so well together that you’d swear we’ve done it for years.
In a way, I guess we have. It’s just never felt so personal.
Once dinner is ready, we sit at the island with our plates piled high and eat in companionable silence. The food is simple—chicken stir-fry tossed in a saltless but garlicky sauce—but it tastes like comfort. Like home.
As we eat, Grayson’s shoulders relax, and the smile I struggled to conjure up over the past few hours occasionally pops up. We slide back into the comfort of being workmates and friends, and the awkwardness melts away as familiar banter and a shared focus take over.
