Heat climbs my neck, and I look at the floor.
My dad disappears back downstairs, already talking to my mom about something involving the good china. Kai lingers for approximately four more seconds, makes direct eye contact with Grayson one more time for good measure, then follows him.
Grayson looks at me.
I look back.
“Guest room,” I say.
“Guest room,” he confirms, very seriously.
“Pretty sure Kai measured the hallway and made sure you’d be at the farthest point away,” I say.
“I believe it.”
My mouth pulls at the corner against my will.
He steps closer, not all the way, just enough that his voice drops to the register that only exists between us. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say back.
“This is good.” He says it simply. Not like he’s trying to convince me. Just like it’s true.
My chest tightens in a good way, the way I’m still getting used to identifying correctly.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “It is.”
He lifts a hand, tucking a loose piece of hair behind my ear, with his thumb brushing my cheek once in the way that makes my entire nervous system reroute. Then he drops it.
“And before you even think about it, I’d like to keep my anatomy intact, so no, I will not be sneaking anywhere.”
I step toward him, wrapping my arms around his neck, bringing him even closer.
“I would never suggest such a thing.”
“Sure,” he says. “And I don’t play hockey.”
His eyes are doing the thing where they’re warm and laughing at the same time, which is deeply unfair. “Kai would absolutely hear it, you know. The man has the hearing of someone who has spent years anticipating bad decisions.”
I laugh at that. He’s not wrong. Tilting my head, I look up at him. “I’m really glad you’re here, Gray.”
“I’m glad you wanted me here.”
“Of course I did.” Leaning up on my tiptoes, I press my lips to his, and he instantly melts into me.
I go to deepen the kiss, but loud squeals from downstairs interrupt our moment, and we break apart.
Judging by the commotion, I’d say the Calloways have just arrived.
42
GRAYSON
The Mercer house on Thanksgiving is controlled chaos in the best possible way.
Sherry runs it like a strict coach who also happens to love everyone in the room unconditionally, which is a specific kind of authority I’ve never encountered before but immediately respect. She moves between the stove and the counter with the efficiency of someone who’s done this exact dance for years, issuing instructions without ever raising her voice, accepting help without giving up an inch of control.
Thomas is on drink duty, which I suspect is a role assigned to him rather than chosen, based on the way Sherry redirects him every time he drifts too close to the oven.
