The squish of his socks sounds through the kitchen. I wrap my arms around myself and smile.
A moment later, he’s back with towels, sweats that are way too big for me, a T-shirt, and a brush for my sopping-wet hair.
He leaves me alone to change and I shut the door, removing my wet clothes and plopping them into the washer with his T-shirt. I towel off and then I roll up the waistband on the sweats and tug the drawstring so I look like I’m wearing a potato sack. I tug the shirt over my head. It comes practically to my knees. But it’s warm and dry.
I step into the kitchen. Greyson’s already there, eyeing me from head to toe.
I twirl and walk, one foot in front of the other toward him like I’m on a catwalk, only I’m half-laughing, half on fire from the look in his eyes.
“This year’s fashion,” I say, slowing my walk and pivoting away from him and then back toward him. “Is the oversized men’s athletic look.”
I hold my hand under my chin the way Paris fashion week models do, posing and looking at him through my lashes.
“You, sir,” I say to Greyson. “Look like you approve of the season’s finest.”
Greyson doesn’t answer. He stalks toward me. “I like you in my clothes.”
He’s a caveman.
“Is that what this is?” I laugh lightly, running my fingertip over the ridges forming on his forehead. “And this?” I drag my finger down the tightness in his jaw.
“You drive me crazy, Hallie,” he says.
I laugh, but my laughter dies when his lips descend on mine, hungry, but restrained. So very Greyson.
I loop my hands around his shoulders. His wet hair tickles the back of my hands. I sink into our kiss—into the safety and danger that is Greyson Stone.
His kiss turns soft, tender. He cups my jaw, pulling back, pushing my damp hair over my shoulder and staring into my eyes with a raw intensity and sweetness that practically has me buckling at the knees.
He gives one short shake of his head, and then he says, “Let’s get you warmed up.”
I follow Greyson into the living room.
“Have a seat on the couch, Hallie. You can use that blanket if you’re still cold.”
He’s back to being gruff, efficient Greyson—brow furrowed, mouth thin. But his eyes aren’t stern, they’re filled with compassion.
“I didn’t melt in the rain, Grey.”
“I know. I just like caring for you. Let me, okay?”
I grin. “Okay.”
He lays logs in the fireplace across from where I’m sitting, and I watch him, savoring the feel of someone else being the one in charge.
After he pulls a long match out from a canister on the hearth and lights the fire, he asks, “Coffee or cocoa?”
“You,” I answer, taking a page from his book.
He smiles softly and walks over to me, sitting down and pulling me into his arms.
I lift my head. “My hair’s still damp. You’re going to get your shirt all wet.”
“I don’t care, Hallie.”
I want to tell him—how I’m not used to this, even after weeks of him making my coffee, considering me, listening to me, staring at me when he thinks I’m not watching. But putting words to the contrast feels like I’d be bringing Danny into the room with us. And the very last person I want in this room is my incapable ex, even if he did inadvertently give me the most precious gift of my life in Mia.
We stay like that, snuggled by the fire. My hair dries while we share stories and sit in stretches of silence. Greyson runs his hand up and down my arm in a soothing rhythm. I curl into him like I never want to leave—because I don’t. Our eyes lock and he places a soft kiss on my forehead. I close my eyes, breathing him in, holding on to him as the rain comes down strong and steady outside the door.
