It would be cruel not to satisfy the giddy butterflies inside my tummy
The increase in my heart rate is probably good for my cardiovascular health
Despite all the ways we’re opposites, when we kissed, we connected and it felt like we were made for each other
Thoughts down on paper, I finally fall asleep and my dreams are Viking cookie dough delicious.
The next morning,I wake to a sunny day, ready to take on Grey and what’s sure to be his cloudy weather.
We meet for a formal breakfast so he can practice his table manners. Unfortunately, I’m still wearing the daisy sundress and pink metallic flats so it doesn’t take me long to get ready, but I expect him to be late.
However, I find the man seated at the table with the white linen cloth reading the newspaper. It’s the sports section, but still, it’s surprisingly civilized.
“Good morning,” I say brightly.
He grunts. Instead of putting down the newspaper, he turns the page.
I frown, considering last night I thought maybe we’d connected.
I’m all too familiar with this kind of greeting, but I can’t exactly stomp my feet and have a temper tantrum because I want his attention. Been there. Done that. Doesn’t work. At least not with men like my father or, at least it seems, Greyson Adams.
“I can’t hire an interpreter, so starting today, I’m going to create a book of translations to decode your responses. A grunt is an acknowledgment. Whether it’s a yes or a no, it’s not clear.”
Grey doesn’t so much as chuckle.
“Next, a snort is laughter or derision. A groan might mean disappointment. Let’s see, then there’s the growl, which, let’s be honest, is intense. Are there any other sounds I should be aware of? Do you speak another language besides Cro magnum man?”
This elicits a grunt, which he follows with, “I speak some Norwegian.”
“I’m fluent in French, thanks to my father’s French Canadian heritage, but I am not versed in your animal sounds.”
He snorts.
I can’t say this is progress.
“So, what’s on the menu this morning?” I’m asking Grey, but Arthur steps forward, offering a variety of menu options. I ask about Britta’s recovery, Goodie’s visit, and thank him again for the cookies.
“Hmm. By any chance, do you have waffle cones?”
“We serve waffles on Wednesdays, miss.”
“I’m in the mood for a waffle cone with coffee ice cream.” I end up resorting to my age-old attention-grabbing tactics that failed on my father, but I have to give it the old college try, right?
Arthur’s expression pinches with distress at my breakfast choice. Still shielded by the newspaper wall, I do a little wink-head nudge to indicate that Arthur go along with my charade.
He nods as if catching on to my approach with the reform school student.
