“A guy who has a car and a valid license would be a start.” I think specifically of Tony Mackie. “Also, their own place. You know, not in their parents’ basement.”
“Is that still acceptable?”
“In the era of helicopter parenting, it’s sometimes encouraged. Also, having a clean police record would be preferred.”
“Can’t help you there,” Grey mutters.
“Were you caught robbing a bank?”
“Got into a few fights when I was younger, dumber, quicker to swing. Went with the Bruiser territory, but now that I’m the old man on the team?—”
“You’re not old.”
He grunts.
“I’d imagine a woman would want someone who matured, grew out of being young, dumb, and quick to swing. Someone who knows who he is and what he wants.”
Grey’s eyes lift to mine and lock. A long moment passes without us breaking any Marriage of Convenience Club rules.
Swept into the moment, I blurt, “I’d sure like to work on a DTR.”
“A what?”
“A Dutch thingamajig radish,” I ramble, not wanting to say what the acronym actually stands for, because that would break all the MOC Club rules again.
“I speak Norwegian, not Dutch, but I don’t think that’s what DTR means.”
“Define the relation—” I can’t say it. A few minutes ago, wrapped in each other’s arms felt like a safe haven. But now, out in the open, I’m afraid to discuss what it might mean to say no or yes.
Grey’s expression goes flat, like we belatedly realized we’d soared too close to a no-fly zone and are both waiting for missiles to fire.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Anyway, these clothes are on loan. And for the record, I liked you the way you were before as much as I like this version.”
“I’m not too pleased with either right now. But thanks.” A subtle grin widens on Grey’s face, giving him a shy, boyish look, even with the trim beard and scar.
Despite everything I’ve been through, I still somehow believe in second chances and seeing the best in people. Grunting and the outburst in the salon aside, I see good in Grey.
He tucks his thumbs into the loops of his jeans. “You’re kind on the eyes too, if I do say so, Mrs. Adams.”
At that, the moment ripples with an electrical current that wasn’t there before. It’s like those words plugged something in. I’m lit up and my pulse hums.
Grey’s lips quirk as he lets out a low, husky sound that almost, but not quite, sounds like laughter.
“Sounds to me like you need to knock the rust off that thing.”
He grips the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t be wrong. It’s been a year.”
I puff an exhale and my shoulders drop a measure. “You’re telling me.”
“Do you want to?” he asks.
“Do I want to what?”
“Tell me. Talk, I mean.”
“First rule of?—”
Grey pumps his hands. “I know, I know. The first rule of the Marriage of Convenience Club is we don’t talk about Marriage of Convenience Club.”
