17. Grayson

Chapter 17

Grayson

M acy is absentmindedly stretching before me, wearing leggings and an orange sports bra. Her hair is tied back, but a lose strand falls into her face when she bends down to touch her toes.

I was glad to find her waiting for me in my front yard, bright and early. I'm determined to sneak into her house one day and throw away that ridiculous treadmill she bought during our rift. Running on my own after being graced to run beside her is a new form of loneliness I never intend to experience again.

I want to pull her to me every time I see her. I want to kiss the tip of her nose and then the delicate skin between her eyebrows and finally her lips. I want her to be mine.

I'm no expert when it comes to relationships, but I know it will go up in flames if it's all based on a lie. I need to tell her. Right now.

"I might call Walter," she says, stealing me from my thoughts.

Change of plans. I lift a brow.

"I have these…moments in the shower?—"

A grin stretches across my face. "Please tell me more."

She rolls her eyes. "I make up fake scenarios where I confront him about everything he's done." She tucks the loose piece of hair behind her ear. "I want him to feel all the pain he's caused me. I want him to hurt."

"If that's what you need to do, then do it. But do you want my opinion?"

She nods hesitantly.

"Your words are precious. Every single one that leaves your mouth is a treasure, and quite honestly, Wally doesn't deserve your pretty words." She doesn't correct me calling him the wrong name.

"The words I have for him are far from pretty."

"If they're coming from your lips, they are."

She lets out a long trail of vulgar words and then smiles at me as if she's proven her point.

"Sounded divine to my ears," I say.

Her eyes narrow on me and then she's off running. She guides us on a different path than the one we usually take along the beach. She runs toward the center of the island, on the wide sidewalk which is divided into two lanes by a line of yellow paint. One for bikes and the other for walkers.

Yellow wildflowers bloom on some of the bushes, there's even a swampy part that we pass with a sign that says Do not feed alligators. $500 fine. I'm running on the opposite side of Macy so I'm closer to the swampy water, in the rare occasion that one decides it's hungry for human meat.

I glance down at my watch. We've already ran a mile and a half, and she hasn't needed a break once. My lips split into a smile, full of pride for her. Her stamina has remarkably improved. She will no doubt outrun me soon.

We return the way we came, both of us occasionally slow to a walk so we can catch our breath. She leads me to the shoreline which is covered in thousands of shells. Her eyes are on the ground, a crease between her brows in concentration, then she kneels and picks up a bright pink scallop shell.

She's in deep concentration, unaware that I'm taking this opportunity to admire her beauty. The roots of her hair are painted with sweat and her cheeks are pink. I want to drop to my knees every time she picks up a shell and smiles, if only to embody the ground she's so fascinated by.

When she seemingly has the perfect collection, she leads me back to my yard. "It's time to liven up your house," she says, turning to me. She could paint it chartreuse, and I'd let her if it made her happy. "Could you hold these?" She places dozens of shells in the palms of my hands and then opens my door and heads straight for the drawers in my kitchen. She opens one after the other.

I chuckle. "Is there something I can help you find?"

She pulls out a bottle of super glue and marches up to me, grabs my arm, and leads me to my mailbox. She's on a mission.

"We'll start here," she says. "Your mailbox is the only one on our street that's plain white." She points to different mailboxes. "Look, that one over there is shaped like a dolphin. And the one next to it has flowers painted on it."

I bite back my amusement and nod my head like this is serious business we discuss. She grabs a shell from my hand and holds it up for me to see. Then, she demonstrates putting glue on it, then pressing it onto my offensively plain mailbox. She holds it for about a minute, then moves onto the next one. I set the bulk of shells on the ground, then grab one to glue. We do this for almost an hour until my mailbox has been fully decorated. She claps her hands together and nods her head with approval. Then she sighs. "I have to go work on edits now," she says, dreadfully.

I walk her to her front door, and she hesitates before going in. I haven't seen her this happy in a long time, and I don't want to let it go, so I say, "I'm calling in that favor you owe me."

She eyes me warily.

"I couldn't help but notice how nicely decorated your house is, especially your bedroom. So, I want you to decorate mine."

She cocks her head and asks, "When did you see my room?"

"How do you think you ended up in bed that night." I leave out the part about her being drunk.

Pink creeps into her cheeks and then she looks down. "Um, we didn't do anything, did we?"

"Of course not. You were drunk."

I pull open the door for her and she brushes past me. "I usually finish editing around three. I'll call you when I'm ready to go to the store." She grins up at me, and I smile. The expression was a rarity for me until I saw Macy at the airport, and now it's seeming to be a common occurrence when I'm in her presence.

Macy is a child in a toy store. She wizzes in and out of aisles, holding decorations up for me to approve. When she presses her lips into a firm line, I know the item she's holding is one she wants me to say yes to. I do just that. So, that's how I became the owner of a floral cookie jar. I can't remember the last time I even had a cookie.

She pushes the cart, despite me offering to do so a dozen times. We go down each and every aisle, but I notice that she skips right past the section of picture frames.

"I'd like to look here." I gesture to the frames.

Her eyes light up and she's eager to follow me. She looks at the simplistic ones, but I brush past her. One that looks as if it were meant for a child's bedroom catches my attention. The four sides are made of wood and are painted different colors. Purple, blue, crème, and pink. I place it in the cart, feeling Macy's curious gaze.

She is the jauntiest person standing in the checkout line. She smiles at each item she picked out as it moves along the conveyor belt. My eyes widen at the new set of pots and pans I hadn't realized she put in the cart. What the hell do I need new ones for? The cashier scans a simple white vase, an artificial plant, and the strawberry scented candle Macy picked out with an adorable grin. The worker struggles to find the barcode on my new ginormous rug. Macy points to it, and I catch sight of her yellow nail polish.

She helps me load everything into the trunk of my car, and she's extra careful with the fragile items, like my new lamp. I turn to her. "Are you okay with making one more stop?" I ask.

She shrugs and then nods her head. If I didn't know any better, I'd think Macy is starting to enjoy my company. I grin.

"What?" she asks, eyeing the expression on my face.

I suppress it enough to appear nonchalant. "Oh nothing."

"I still don't like you," she supplies. Her eyebrows raise. It's a lie.

I grin even wider. "Keep telling yourself that, Mace," I say as I slide into the driver's seat, a wide grin on my face.

Macy shoots me a curious look when we walk through the automatic doors of a home improvement store. I lead her to the section filled with hundreds of paint colors. She turns to me with a smirk. "And here I thought we were taking baby steps but you're ready to enter the big leagues."

I glance at her painted fingernails. "Is yellow your favorite color?"

She shakes her head. "It's a close second, but I like a certain shade of orange that looks like the sunset."

A memory blurs my vision. Macy's eyes glittering in the setting sun, edges of her hair glowing from the sky. Her kissing me beneath the lifeguard tower.

I think orange is my favorite color too.

I saunter to the section of orange, overlooking the neon shades, and glancing at a row of pastels. I find one called "Sunset Orange" and pick it up. Macy's eyes widen and she doesn't try to conceal her surprise. "You're painting your walls my favorite color?"

"No," I say. "I'm painting a wall my favorite color."

By the time we are back at my house, I'm starving. "Want to go grab a bite to eat?"

She reels back as if she's been insulted and then gestures to the countless bags of décor. "We haven't even started yet."

I raise my brows at her when my stomach rumbles loudly. I dig around my fridge, gathering everything I need to make an egg sandwich. Macy claims she isn't hungry, but I make an extra one anyway. Once I set it down in front of her, she eats it rather quickly.

After she washes her hands, she plays music on her phone and sets the volume on high. She pulls out a stack of books from one of the bags. I told her at the store that I was never going to read them, but she claimed they were for decoration and that no one ever reads them. After arranging them on my coffee table, along with a vase of greenery, she steps back to appreciate her work.

"Looks good," I say before digging through the bags to find my picture frame. "Be right back." Macy doesn't even look up, and I doubt she heard me since I'm of little interest to her at the moment. I chuckle when she starts lip syncing to the music, and then I disappear down the hallway and tuck myself in my bedroom to put away the frame.

Once I'm back in the living room, she eyes me with an expectant look on her face. "Are you going to sit around all day or actually help?"

I hold up my hands in surrender. Feisty thing she is. With everyone else, she's an unlit match. Being around me ignites something within her, and there's something thrilling about being the exception to her niceties.

I bring the bag of throw pillows to my small couch and place them where I think they look good, but then Macy clicks her tongue with the shake of her head and then rearranges them. It looks ten times better, and I question how anything gets done correctly if not for a woman's touch.

She hands me a small wooden shelf, then points to a spot on my wall. "Hang this."

"Yes, ma'am."

Once I do so, I grab the three copies of Minerva Day books scattered throughout my house and display them on my new shelf.

I help her unroll the huge rug, lifting the corners of my coffee table to slide it beneath. Once all the bags are empty, I take in my house. There's not a corner that she hasn't touched. I realize how bare it truly was. I can't help but compare the space to myself. My life was colorless until Macy stepped into it. I've been numb to the world around me, but she taught me how good it can feel to feel . And God, Macy makes me feel everything.

I take her face in my hands and kiss her forehead. "It looks great, Mace. Thank you."

Her cheekbones pinken and my lips tingle like I need to kiss her blush.

"Which wall did you want to paint?" she asks, her voice soft.

I gesture to it. It's the one closest to her house, and it's not that big. We can paint it tonight. She must realize the same thing. "I'll be right back. I need to find an old T-shirt."

"I have one you can wear." I don't. I own less than ten shirts, all of which I wear regularly, but I want to see her in my clothes, even if she stains them with orange paint.

I return from my bedroom a moment later and hand her a black one. She puts it over her tank top. The hem reaches just above her knees, and she glances up at me. "You're huge," she says. I slowly grin, and her face flushes. "Don't make it dirty."

I feign innocence. "No clue what you mean."

She rolls her eyes and then throws her hair into a knot above her head. A few strands come loose, falling into her face. Sometimes it's excruciating to look at her, like my gaze alone could taint something so perfect, like spilled ink on a white tablecloth. But she is marvelous, and I can't help but look. Maybe that makes me selfish.

She pries open the bucket of paint and then pours some into the tray. I cover the floor and put tape over the outlets, baseboards, and the part where the wall meets the ceiling. By the time everything is prepped, more strands have found their way into Macy's face, and my shirt is so baggy on her that her legs look like two toothpicks sticking out from beneath it. I grab my phone and snap a photo of her. She's shooting me a glare, and I take another. It takes us a little over an hour to cover the wall in paint, and once we are done, we're both shiny with sweat.

Both my shirts are ruined—the one I wear and the one I gave to Macy. I set the paint roller down and pull her to me by her hands. The smallest bit of paint is dried in her eyebrow. I rub it away with my thumb and her eyes fall shut. She ever so slightly leans into my touch.

Every moment spent with her is a new experience. Simplicities, like having someone to enjoy the feel of my touch, is unfamiliar.

I admire her standing in front of me, letting me hold her face. Her eyes open. Her chest heaves as if she's been running, and her vanilla scent is stronger when she steps closer to me. I'm pleased that she hasn't shied away from me. My touch is featherlight as I run my thumb over her jaw.

With my eyes glued to hers, I kneel steadily. My knees touch the floor and her throat bobs. I suppress my grin and feign confusion for her sudden breathlessness. "Why do you look so scared, Mace. I was only picking this up." I hold my phone up for her to see, then stand to my full height, towering over her once again. I put the device in my pocket.

A crease forms between her eyebrows, and then she moves to step away from me, but I grab her wrist and pull her mouth to mine.

She claims my lips with the same fire she always gives me and I'm feverish because of it. I quickly throw my hat off, my hair probably looking as disheveled as I feel. She runs her hands beneath my shirt, and when I nip at her bottom lip, she digs her nails into my skin. I groan and she answers me with a lovely sound that I etch to memory. This kiss is a duel, and right now she's winning because I will yield to her every want.

She backs us up until she's pressed against my sliding glass door. I remove my hands from her body and press them against the cold door, framing her face.

She places her palm over my racing heart and then descends it down my body teasingly. The muscles in my abdomen are flexing against her touch, and I'm completely at her mercy when she reaches the top of my pants. She's watching me with intent.

Like a moth to a flame, I'd willingly burn just to be closer to her.

When her hands stroke me over the denim of my jeans, the friction causes my head to fall between her shoulder and neck. It shouldn't feel this good with so many layers between us. "Reluctantly, I need to ask you to stop doing that or this is going to end far too quickly."

She covers her mouth to stifle a laugh. Even if it's at my expense, I'll gladly be the cause of it. "You find this funny, do you? Your touch is going to be my defeat."

Her cheeks go crimson and this time I do kiss them. "Do you trust me?" I ask.

She nods her head, and then gasps as I guide her hips to turn her around, so her back is to me. I grab her hands and press them against the glass, covering them with mine. No one can see us. I've had these windows tinted for privacy. I breathe against the side of her neck where I know she likes being kissed. I'm pleased by her shiver. I've mapped out every sensitive point on her body.

I drag the tip of my finger down the back of her neck. "I'd like my shirt back now," I say, toying with the collar. She slowly lifts it over her head, tossing it somewhere behind us.

She puts her hands back on the glass. I place mine beside hers, my thumbs brushing the back of her littlest fingers. My bottom lip feathers down her pulse and over her shoulder. I press closer until we are flush together. I move a hand from the door to drag it over her lower belly, slowly inching beneath her tank top until I'm right below her breast. "Can I touch you here?"

Her head lulls back and she's hasty with her nod. I grin and say in an amused voice, "You don't seem sure. Perhaps we should sto—" She steps on my toes with such force that I hiss out a breath. "Feisty," I purr, and then squeeze her, pleasantly surprised to find she isn't wearing a bra. I take the sensitive peek between my thumb and index finger. She squeezes her legs together and lets out a breath.

With my other hand, I feel the button on her denim shorts. I slowly peel them open, then take her chin between my fingers so I can see her face. "Is this all right?"

"Ye—" I kiss her before she can finish the word, and her lips form a smile against mine.

I dip my hand into her shorts, palming her over her underwear. My forehead falls into her vanilla scented hair. "You're enjoying this more than you're letting on," I say in a grainy voice. I pull her shorts down her legs. She turns her head to look at me. "I'm not going to be the only one losing clothes this time."

I smirk. "If you want to see me naked, Mace, all you need to do is ask." I pull my shirt off. She's impossibly closer than before. We're both breathing heavily. She places her hands over mine as I explore her body. I trail the tips of my fingers down her torso, playing with the hem of her underwear until she squirms against me. She squeezes my hand.

I whisper against her ear, "What do you want?"

"You know."

I want her to beg for my touch. "Say it." I catch her reflection in the glass. She's shooting bullets at me. I grin, then lift my hand higher, away from what she craves.

"Maybe I'll just leave." She mimics my expression in the glass.

I dip my hands in her underwear, making her head turn in surprise. I'm quick to kiss her parted lips. "You win," I whisper, but I'm the one who's truly rewarded by the delightful sound she makes.

I swirl the tips of my fingers over the most sensitive part of her, entranced by the hazel globes staring at my reflection. I memorize the way her eyebrows pull together. It's truly cruel to be so beautiful.

I press against her back so she's flush with the glass. Her head turns and I hover over her lips. Our gazes never part, not even when I press my finger against her entrance. Her eyes darken and I push in, slowly curling the digit, which earns a new sound from her. "That's it, Mace. Sing for me." I quicken the pace and kiss her fervently. Our lips meet and break apart, like the clash of two swords. It's a battle and we're on opposing sides because she doesn't want to want me, and I want her to be my center of gravity.

I slip another digit in. "Does that feel good, Mace? Fingers of a man you despise, filling you and coaxing those sounds from your pretty lips?"

She cries out, pulsing around my fingers. Her hands curl into white knuckled fists against the glass, as though she needs something to hold onto. I grab them with my empty hand, and she pierces me with her nails.

Once her moans quiet, I place a soft kiss to her hair and pull my hand out of her underwear, my fingers glistening. I turn her around, and smile at the sight of her rosy cheeks. Her eyes shine and when she stares up at me, I realize that she'll never be my center of gravity because she is an asteroid rocking my entire world. She's equally my undoing and my salvation. She's heaven, and I'm hell.

She'll either go up in flames with me or be the rarity that smothers them.

She slowly moves down until she's on her knees, eyeing my zipper. Right now, she's lighter fluid about to burn me alive. I take her chin between my fingers, with my clean hand, so she meets my eyes. "Don't worry about me, Mace."

"But you've made me…" Her cheeks go red. "Twice."

I go on my knees, still towering over her, so I crouch down until our foreheads touch. "You say it as if I don't get any enjoyment from it."

"But no relief." She eyes my zipper again, and the evidence of that statement is clear.

"I have plenty to think of tonight." I grin.

She deserves to think of sex as something beautiful. At herself as divine. Not an object for someone else's pleasure, the way her ex-fiancé made her feel. I can tell she was only going to do that out of obligation, and if Macy is going to touch me, it needs to be because she wants to. I intend to make up for all the wrongs I didn't commit. For her.

I softly brush my lips against hers, and it's kind. Like we're finally on the same side, embracing one another as if we've won. The way she makes me feel burns brighter than anything I've ever lost, and then I realize, my theory proved true.

"If you fill your life with things that bring you joy, eventually happiness becomes bigger than the grief."