18. Macy

Chapter 18

Macy

" W hen are you coming home? You can't ignore Walter forever." My mother's voice comes through the receiver of my phone.

After last night with Grayson, I can't imagine leaving. He's starting to grow on me, the way barnacles take over the underside of boats. Nonetheless, I don't want to leave the sunshine and my friends. "I don't know."

My father speaks, and I can picture my parents now, sitting at their round dinner table with the phone placed in the center, shooting each other looks. "We are worried, honey. This behavior isn't like you."

My mom speaks. "And you need to stop ignoring your fiancé."

"He's no longer my fiancé because I'm not marrying him."

"I don't know what happened between you, but I'm sure you will talk it out. Just come home," my mom says.

"This isn't something talking will fix," I mumble.

"Then help us understand." My dad.

"I hate to break it to you, Macy, but you're not going to find anyone else like Walter," my mom says. Thank God for that. "I strongly suggest you get home and fix this before it's too late."

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. I slide open the back door and sit on the swinging bench.

My eyes automatically go to Grayson, who sits on his porch, holding one of my books in his hand. It feels like fireworks go off inside my chest. He's wearing glasses which is new, but they complement his features and make him look sophisticated. The black frames nearly match his dark hair.

"Are you there?" my dad asks.

"Yeah, sorry. Bad connection," I lie. "All you guys need to know is that Walter doesn't make me happy."

It's silent. I'm pretty sure they put me on mute. My mom eventually says, "Macy Brookes, if you don't get your ass home this instant…" I don't hear the rest because Grayson's eyes meet mine and the rest of the world falls away.

He smiles and it's all dimples and paperwhite teeth. The glasses raise slightly from his cheeks pressing them up. It's not his usual smirk or grin. It's him without his arrogant mask. A person's smile shouldn't have the capability of stealing my breath. Its dreadful to know that no site will compare to him.

I hang up on my parents.

An invisible string tethers me to him, and right now our distance pulls it taught. Tension ripples in the air between us. In the back of my mind, I dare anyone to try and break it.

I lift my hand in greeting, and he dips his head in response, a gentler smile playing on his face. Then, he closes the book in his hand and gets up from his chair. His black shirt hugs him in all the right places, and I don't need to imagine what's beneath, because I've seen him without a shirt. He looks like a statue carved from marble. He's not wide and bulky, he's tall and sculpted to perfection, and I can only conclude it's because he lifts weights in addition to his daily runs. He crosses the distance between our yards.

"Macy," he says as way of greeting.

"Grayson."

"Lovely morning, isn't it?"

Now it is.

I push the previous phone call with my parents from my mind. It's simple because I'm not leaving, at least not for a while. For once, I feel like my life has meaning. Like I'm finally doing what I want.

He sits beside me on my porch swing, making it rock slightly. His shoulder is touching mine, and the entirety of my side burns as if I'm sitting beside a fire. But there's no fire, there's only Grayson. "How did you sleep?" he asks. It's an innocent question that makes me think back to last night. My face heats down to my neck.

I slept better than ever, but I won't admit that it's because of him. "Tossed and turned all night. You?"

He grins and the glasses soften the hard angles of his face. "Perhaps you would've slept better if I had been there beside you."

I roll my eyes, despite the appeal of him in my small bed. There would be no space between us. His legs would hang off the end, and everything about him would look out of place in my bedroom.

"Those new?" I change the subject, pointing to his glasses. And impossibly, his cheeks pinken. Perhaps it's the lighting because Grayson doesn't blush.

"Yes."

"Interesting," I say. "I like them."

"I'm marking this day in my calendar. That might be the nicest thing you've said to me. And I got them because I was having a hard time seeing the words in your book."

He got glasses just to read my writing .

I feel my chin begin to quiver. I will away the emotion, but not before Grayson notices. There's a crease between his brows and suddenly my thumb tingles. I want to rub it away.

Swept up in the moment, I reveal a glimpse of myself. "No one's ever cared about my books."

His gaze is full of something I can't place. "I care."

"I know," I whisper.

He tilts his head and it's like he's teetering on the tightrope between us, trying to reach me. To understand. I find myself doing the same most of the time. But I can never tell what he's thinking. Every time he reveals something about himself, it makes it ten times harder to understand him.

"I'm bored," I say to change the subject, and whatever fell over us seems to have moved past. Like a small cloud blowing by, shading what's beneath it for only a moment.

His expression remains serious, as though he's having a hard time moving on from what I said. "What are your plans for today?" he asks after a few moments, like he needed to find his voice again.

I shrug. "Nothing. I give myself the weekends off from editing."

"Great. I'm not working today either. Get dressed, I'm taking you somewhere." Not bothering to hear my reply, he walks back to his house without a second glance and disappears inside.

I pick up my phone and call him. He answers on the first ring. "Miss me already?" he asks, voice smug.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see when we get there."

I bite the inside of my cheeks. What am I supposed to wear if I don't know what we're doing? "Well, will we be inside or outside? Should I dress nice or comfortable? Will we be sitting or standi?—"

"Wear something casual." He hangs up.

I roll my eyes. How helpful.

I'm curling the last section of my hair when I hear a knock on my front door. I unplug the curling iron and then run my fingers through the curls as I walk through my house. I open the door to find two agonizing dimples and a towering man sporting his usual hat. No more glasses.

He blows out a low whistle, taking in my appearance. I'm wearing a bright coral baby T-shirt and a pair of denim jeans. He takes a strand of my brown hair between his index finger and thumb, eyes roaming over my face. "You look lovely." He steps out of the doorway, gesturing for me to join him outside.

I expect to find out where we're going, but he doesn't say anything about it. He drives us over the bridge that connects Sanibel to the mainland.

I shoot him a questioning look, but his lips curve, and he pretends to zip them shut. He opens the window and tosses away the invisible key, which makes me laugh at how playful he's being, and right as the sound touches his ears, he glances at me. The look in his eye is one I've only seen once from him. When he saw his first shooting star. I thought it looked like peace. A chill trickles down my body, and I tell myself it's because I'm cold.

I plug his charging cord into my phone, and a mischievous grin takes over my face when I realize my music connected to his car speakers. I play an old Taylor Swift song and start singing her lyrics.

So does Grayson. He sings every word, attempting to turn his deep voice soft and instead it comes out scratchy. At first glance, his frivolous smile looks out of place, but the more I watch him, I realize he's shed another layer. I laugh so hard, I'm tempted to pull out my phone and record the moment, but I'm afraid he'll stop and slip his mask back on. So, I brand it to memory instead, for only me to see.

I've always hid parts of myself in the presence of others. I want to protect them from the harsh opinions in this world. I can tell Grayson conceals more of himself than I do. Bravery manifests in a million different ways. So, when he reveals something new to me, I recognize the trust he has to do so. There's intimacy in his vulnerability.

Another song plays, and like the previous one, he knows the words. By the fourth one, I turn to him. "I never pegged you to be a Swifty."

He lifts a shoulder. "I've been listening to her since I was a kid." His expression changes ever so slightly. Do memories of his childhood make him sad?

I try to get his mind off whatever it is. "Where are we going?"

He grins but doesn't answer.

"Are we almost there?"

No reply.

"Can you at least tell me how much longer we have?"

Nothing.

"Are you playing The Quiet Game or something?"

Silence.

I take it as a challenge. "Fine, don't say anything. I'll just sit here and keep myself entertained."

His lips tick at the corners, like he's trying to suppress a smile. Then, I sing in the loudest, most obnoxious voice I can muster. I shoot him a glance, but he doesn't crack. Fine. "You know, I can remember exactly what I thought the first time I met you," I say, and his face changes to curiosity. "Too bad we aren't talking to one another, because maybe I'd tell yo?—"

"We'll be there in fifteen minutes," he says.

I grin, then seal my mouth shut.

"Touché," he says. "I remember what I thought of you the first time we met. Perhaps I'd be open to sharing if you were."

Now I'm curious. I can't read him now any more than I could then. "Fine," I say. "I thought you were an arrogant prick who was undeserving of such luscious eyelashes."

His laughter is husky. "Your first impression was that I didn't deserve eyelashes?"

"Did you miss the ‘arrogant prick' part? And no, you just don't deserve those eyelashes. Do you know how much money I'll probably spend in my lifetime on mascara?"

"What's mascara?"

I roll my eyes. "Exactly. Undeserving."

"Anything else?"

"Yes," I say. "You were the bane of my existence."

He grins. "You done?"

"Yes. You're turn."

His face loses all amusement, he turns serious. "When I first met you, I thought you were the prettiest girl I'd ever seen."

I tilt my head. Perhaps I took it a step too far when I called him the bane of my existence.

He continues. "You embodied the rays of a thousand suns. You were joy personified. I thought you were lovely, Mace."

Is he being sarcastic? I was a grump who had just left her terrible fiancé and found out her flight was canceled. "Were you in a parallel universe that day?"

"Perhaps," he says, but there something hidden beneath the word, and I can't explain why, but I feel like I should know what it is. I rack my brain for a clue but come up empty. "We're here," he says. I was so focused on him that I hadn't looked out the window. We're parked in a grassy field, along with countless other cars.

Before I can ask where we are, he climbs out of his car and rounds the front to open my door. The sky is naked, with only the sun to keep it company. Not a single cloud. My skin warms but it's not too hot out today. We must be experiencing our first cold front, and by cold front, I mean it's probably sixty-eight degrees and sunny.

He links our arms and walks toward a crowd of people. There's a labyrinth of pumpkins. The air smells of fresh cider and hay, and there's children with face paint running between the legs of adults. He leads me to a wooden booth. "Two tickets, please," Grayson says after we wait in line. The lady gives us bright green wrist bands and Grayson hands her his credit card.

We walk through an arch made of flowering vines. A black and yellow striped butterfly flutters past me. This place feels magical, with families and their jubilant children together. "What is this place?"

He finally answers me. "It's the annual fall festival."

"You come here every year?"

"No." He doesn't elaborate.

There are colorful booths made of wood, painted to represent what they are. I pull Grayson over to the spiked cider and buy us both a drink. It leaves a foam mustache on his lip after he takes a sip.

I spot a sign with an arrow pointing toward the corn maze entrance. I tug Grayson, walking fast enough that the contents of my cup spill over the edge, making my hand wet and sticky.

At the mouth of the maze, I meet his eyes and chug the rest of my drink. He takes my empty cup and stacks it with his.

"Close your eyes," I whisper.

He looks at me with beautiful curiosity and then shuts them. His lashes cast a crescent shadow on both his cheeks, and a part of me wants to stay like this forever. With his eyes closed, unaware that I'm learning every detail of his face.

I take off running into the maze. A thrill of anticipation shoots down my body. My hair is flying behind me, and the wind caresses my face.

I try not to contemplate why I want him to catch me while I run to escape him, why the idea of him finding me is exhilarating. I don't want to understand why I can't fathom ever hating him, how the idea seems ridiculous now. I go to bed every night with excitement, knowing I'll see him first thing in the morning on our runs. I see his eyes when I gaze up at the full moon. I seem to find him everywhere, even when he's not around. I try not to pay attention to my body, the way it feels as if I'm falling down a wishing well, hoping I'll find him at the bottom. I'm a liar when I convince myself I'm not having these thoughts, these feelings.

I don't look behind me, I just run until I meet a dead end, then I turn back and go another direction. The rows of corn are a blur as I whiz past. I haven't seen a single person yet.

I hear the crunch of hay beneath someone's shoes nearing behind, until a firm body presses against my back, and two arms of steel wrap around me.

His breath is warm against my racing pulse, as he whispers, "You think you can hide from me?" He slowly steps in front of me. "It's me who can't escape you, darling." Lips feathering mine, he says almost to himself, "I've already tried."

Then he kisses me. Hard. Passionate. Dizzying.

It's the kind of kiss you read in a story and wish to experience at least once in your life. The kind in a fairytale before you read the words they lived happily ever after. This kiss is a maze in itself, and I'm lost. Nothing exists other than Grayson and his devouring lips. As if they could ever be mine, he steals them away, and then there's just his eyes. And I think of a full moon hanging in the sky, shining light on everything.

"You're looking at me differently," he says. There's no smirk or grin. It's just him and I without our masks, getting closer and closer on that tight rope.

"How am I looking at you?" My voice doesn't sound like mine. It's too breathless, too choppy.

"Like you don't hate me."

"I don't," I whisper.

His eyes shut when I say it. Moments pass before he says, "Promise me something." His eyes open again, but they are sad.

"Okay." I breathe.

"Remember it," he says with so much weight. "Remember this. Not hating me. Just—" his voice cracks and I want to fix it. Fix whatever it is that's making the full moon frown. "Don't forget it. Okay?"

He's scared I'll change my mind? I feel an intense need to remedy it, so I say, "I won't forget. I promise."

He kisses me but it's different. This one feels like goodbye. Like an apology. Like he's trying to savor the last bite before it's gone. Maybe he's right to feel this way. I mean, I live across the country.

He lifts me easily, and I hook my legs around his waist. The kiss changes to something hungry. Breathless, until we're both starving for something forbidden in a place like this. Where anyone could walk by. His lips graze my neck, and I grip onto the back of his and let my head hang back, exposing the column of my throat to him. He runs his lips over it, and the unexpectedness makes me sigh out a moan.

He's so warm that every place we are connected heats, making me think of a fire so hot that it burns blue. And then I realize that his eyes aren't ice-cold glaciers, nor are they the full moon. They're blue flames.

"Mace, you've gotta stop me."

"Why?"

"When it comes to you, my inhibition seems to evaporate, and I'm moments away from tearing both our clothes off." His words shouldn't make me want so much. He sets me down easily and places a gentle kiss to my temple. "Sorry," he says. "I lose myself a little bit in you."

I laugh. It's loud and joyful and something unexpected, and it lights up his face. This is not what I was expecting today when I woke up, but I'm loving every second of it. The spontaneity is something I've always starved for. It's a need close to breathing for me, and Walter never cared to meet it. Grayson doesn't try. He just is spontaneous. From the moment we met, he went with the flow. His flight was canceled but he wasn't stressed, he made the most of it. He made it fun. He makes everything fun. I don't even think he realizes it.

The cold, rude man I met in the airport was yet another mask. Grayson is warm and kind. He's fun and playful. He's sweet and tentative.

I take his hand and run, our laughter chases us, hay crunches beneath our shoes. My heart races and it feels as if it's saying mine mine mine. We reach countless dead ends until we make it to the end of the corn maze. It spits us out to a different part of the field with bubbles filling the air and children chasing after them.

A dog barks somewhere in the distance. I search for it, until I see a sign that says Pet Adoptions. There's a giant dog in a crate, wiggling its butt and howling at Grayson and I when we get closer.

"Would you like to see her?" an old woman asks, wearing a purple T-shirt that says she's a volunteer for a pet rescue.

I quickly nod.

The woman opens the crate and quickly clips a leash on the dog. The husky darts out and jumps on Grayson, trying to kiss his face but he's too tall to reach. He crouches down and the dog licks his cheek and makes winy noises, as if it can't contain its excitement. It looks at me and howls. I crouch down beside Grayson and run my fingers through its soft fur.

"Her name is Daisy. I foster her," the woman says. "Sad story of how we got this sweet girl. The couple she was with since she was a puppy both passed away. Such a tragedy. A friend went to clean out their apartment a week later and found her in the bathroom drinking from the toilet bowl." She looks between Grayson and I. "She's two and a half, which is the perfect age to me. She's potty trained and won't chew on your shoes or destroy your home, but she's still young and energetic. She'd be perfect for a young couple like yourselves."

Neither him nor I correct her assumption. Daisy is so happy; you'd never know how she ended up in a foster home by looking at her. She's so precious, I'd take her in a heartbeat, but I have no idea what I'm going to do with my life, and she needs stability. I hope she finds a loving home.

The laughter bubbling in the air is one I haven't heard before. The joyful sound is coming from Grayson. Daisy's licking the palm of his hand. His dimples are deeper than I've ever seen.

He continues to play with Daisy, patting her side and saying, "Who's a good girl?" He looks reluctant when he stands and thanks the lady fostering her. She gives us a tight-lipped smile, then puts Daisy back in her crate.

Grayson flicks his head, gesturing me to follow him, and as soon as we begin to walk away, Daisy howls and my heart breaks. The bright smile on Grayson's face has vanished.

I'm too focused on him to realize where he's led us, until we're showing our wrist bands to a worker and getting on a hay bale ride. There are two young girls sitting across from us. They have the same blond hair, and one looks about three years older than the other. I assume they're sisters. They have excited smiles on their faces.

We go along a trail, weaving through rows of hay and some trees, until suddenly a person wearing a Halloween mask pops out from a divot in the hay. I screech and so does the youngest girl in front of me. Her big sister starts laughing, which immediately makes the little girl relax. I look at Grayson, who's chuckling at me. "You didn't tell me this was a haunted hayride."

He leans down to whisper in my ear. "I know. I just like watching you cause a scene."

The ride is only about five or so minutes, and each time someone pops out, I jump a little, which makes Grayson laugh. The sisters in front of us don't even flinch, and they join Grayson in laughing at my expense. I can tell the little girls look out for one another by how the older one's presence comforts the younger one. Growing up, I'd see how my friends were with their siblings, and a part of me always envied them. It would be nice to have someone constantly by my side. By the time it's done, I've scooted as close as humanly possible to Grayson out of pure instinct.

We walk around the festival until Grayson suddenly freezes. I follow his line of sight to a booth selling stuffed animals. It's as though he has tunnel vision, not hearing me when I ask, "What is it?" He tensely walks over to the booth, picking up a blue stuffed dolphin and staring at it solemnly.

"Shopping for a kid at home?" the chipper old man behind the table asks.

"No," Grayson says in a dry voice, which causes the worker to wince at his rudeness. I want to remedy the situation, but before I can make it to them and say something polite, Grayson pulls out his wallet and tosses a fifty-dollar bill on the table.

He walks toward me, as though he doesn't care about getting his change back. He puts the stuffy in my hand. "For you," he says in a faraway voice, like he's in a trance. What's gotten into him?

"Um, thank you."

We continue to roam the fair in silence. I glance at Grayson several times, who is even more impossible to read in this moment. There's an angry gray cloud in the sky and most people have left by now since they don't want to get caught in Florida's unpredictable weather.

I spot a face painting booth and luckily there's no line, so I tuck away my mischievous grin as I walk up. Grayson mindlessly follows me, and I can only hope that my plan rids him of this grim mood.

I spot the wall of designs and find the perfect one. Grayson eyes me but doesn't say anything. I shove him into the chair and tell the artist which design I want her to paint on his face.

Grayson narrows his gaze at me. His gaze runs down my body and then focuses on my feet. I go up and down on the tips of my toes in excitement. He sighs and lets the lady get to work.

I can't help but laugh as it comes together, and when the artist hands him a mirror, he rolls his eyes at his own reflection. She painted a black circle around his right eye, a black nose, dots on his cheeks, and a red tongue hanging out of his mouth. I chose a dog since it's his favorite animal. He doesn't seem to appreciate the sentiment.

When he stands up, I can't fight the hysterical laughter that leaves me. It's a hilarious sight to see such a tall, chiseled man with child's face paint. His eyes soften and the grouchy mood he was in finally dissipates. I pay and then Grayson says in a dry voice, "I think it's time to go."

I laugh and take a picture of him, right as I feel a sprinkle of rain hit my shoulder.

"Okay, now it's really time to go," he says.

I follow him toward the parking lot but then tug on his hand. "I'll meet you at the car, I'm going to run to one of the porta potties," I lie, shove the stuffed dolphin into his hands, then take off into a sprint since the sprinkles are turning into a full-on storm. When I glance back, he is rubbing his face clean with the help of the rain. I can't even be upset because the photo I captured is priceless.

I try to remember exactly where I need to go, backtracking my steps, until I finally spot the woman in the purple shirt, who is in a hurry packing. "Did Daisy get adopted?" I ask with water starting to drip down my face.

Kneeling as she puts things in a duffle bag, her eyes meet mine and she gives me a gentle smile. "Sadly, not yet. One of the volunteers brought her to my car while I packed up. Didn't want her to get all wet."

"Can I take your phone number?" I ask. "I'm not promising anything, and if another family wants to adopt her don't wait on me, but I'd like to think on it and maybe give you a call soon."

She digs through her bag until she finds what she was looking for. She stands and hands me a card with her contact information. "Thank you!" She gives me a quick nod before getting back to work.

It's in this very moment, as I'm sprinting to the parking lot, I realize how much my stamina has improved since running every morning. If I made this exact attempt a month ago, I'd be on the brink of death by now. My feet sink into the soggy grass with each step, making a sloshing sound. My attempt to open the passenger door is futile since Grayson doesn't make a move to unlock it.

I pound at the window, my clothes sopping wet and hair sticking to my cheeks. So much for curling it. His muffled laughter makes my chattering teeth grind.

"This isn't funny!" I pull again, and this time, the door swings wide open and I don't waste time climbing in. I point a threatening finger into his chest. "You?—"

"Motherfucking cockbucket?" he surmises.

I grin and lean over the center console, bringing my lips within an inch of his. His demeanor instantly changes to something primal. And then, with his focus on my lips, I ring my hair out onto his lap, and he hisses the moment the water soaks his crotch.

"You're evil," he says with his eyebrows raised.

I lean back into my seat and cross my legs with a pleased shrug.

He blasts the heat and the only sound while we drive is my teeth chattering and the windshield wiper at full speed. Ten minutes in, Grayson is completely dry since he made it to the car before it poured. However, my long hair drips down my back, and the denim of my jeans certainly won't dry any time soon.

"You don't need a GPS?" I ask when he gets on the highway.

"My job is in the area. I usually do everything from home unless I have a meeting or something."

"What made you want to live in Sanibel?" I ask. It's a small island with expensive houses. Most people want to visit the island for a weekend and then leave. And the ones that do buy a place usually use it as a vacation house.

"I wanted to be close to the office. It's only a thirty-minute drive, sometimes forty-five depending on traffic." He shrugs. "I didn't want to live in the city, so Sanibel it was."

"What about your family. Where do they live?"

There's a long stretch of silence. I almost think he won't answer, but eventually, he says, "I don't like to talk about them."

Here I am again, balancing with my arms out along the tightrope between us. "You aren't close with them?"

I take his silence as a yes.

"I see," I say. "Maybe one day you'll patch things up." I squeeze his hand that holds the steering wheel, and when he glances at me, I give him an encouraging smile. I don't know what happened between him and his family, but I hope for his sake they work it out. He doesn't deserve to have no one.

He clears his throat. "Tell me about your family."

"My mom is a little…high-strung, but she means well. At least that's what I tell myself. My dad just goes with whatever my mom wants. They are day and night, but hey, they make it work," I say. "I'm an only child, but I've always wanted a sister." I sigh. "I was closest with my grandparents. I mean, I could tell them anything . They would never judge or lecture me." I focus on the raindrops on the window, watching one pool into the other until it gets so heavy it drips. "The summer going into my junior year of high school I told my grandma I was ready to have sex for the first time and she slipped me a pack of condoms to bring home." I laugh to myself, picturing her buying them at the store. But I never used them, because when the opportunity presented itself that year, I realized I wasn't ready. And that was okay too. I look at Grayson to gauge his reaction, and smile at his wide eyes. "My grandpa was pretty go with the flow…a lot like you. You would've liked him," I say.

"Your family sounds great," he says. "I already like them, and you're very fortunate to have them."

He's right. It's easy to take what you have for granted until you look at those who aren't as lucky. I think of those who have negligent parents or even abusive ones. I close my eyes and take a moment to appreciate what I have. Who I have. Even though it aches knowing I'll never see my grandparents again in this lifetime. The memories and time we shared are a privilege in themselves. "Yeah. I guess I am."

It's nearly the end of daylight. We sit in comfortable silence and the melody of rain pounding at the car nearly puts me to sleep. Right as I'm at the cusp of a dream, Grayson curses beneath his breath.

I crack my eyes open. We aren't moving and there are countless taillights before us. It's raining impossibly harder now. I look farther and that's when I see red and blue lights blocking anyone from entering the bridge to Sanibel. The one and only bridge.

Grayson picks up his phone and calls someone. "Hey man," he says. He laughs at something the person on the other line said. "You know what's going on at the bridge?" He listens for a while, then says, "All right. No worries." He listens for another moment, then hangs up.

Car horns blare and then a white pickup truck makes an illegal U-turn, making its way out of the standstill traffic and away from Sanibel. Grayson makes the same move as the truck, earning several honks of his own. He takes us onto the highway, farther away from our houses. I can hardly see past the wind shield, even with his wipers at full speed.

"That was Elliot," he says. "There was a bad accident on the bridge. Five or six cars piled up. Probably from the storm. It won't be cleared for anyone to leave or enter for hours. Possibly even tomorrow morning." He doesn't take his eyes off the road for even a moment to gauge my reaction.

I bite my bottom lip, something I tend to do when I'm worried. "Where are we going?"

"There's an inn by my office."

I pictured taking a bath tonight and then curling into bed with a book. I steal a glance from Grayson. His body isn't tense, and his face is relaxed. It dissolves some of my anxiety. He makes me feel safe.

Once we get to the Inn, the rain has slowed to a drizzle. It's a small two-story building with a neon sign in the parking lot. We walk empty handed to the office to check in, no bags or clothes to change into. The jingle above the door makes the sleeping old man behind the desk stir awake, then he smiles warmly at us. "I was just resting my eyes," he lies. "Need a room?"

"Two, actually," Grayson says.

The old man looks down at a piece of paper, then worries his lip. "You coming from Sanibel?"

I nod.

"I'm afraid a few people already beat you to it. We have one room left."

Great. "We'll take it," I say.

He hands me a key and directs us to room thirteen. I walk behind Grayson, who climbs the stairs slowly. We've shared a room before; this isn't anything new for us. Once he opens the door, any lingering amusement on his face falls away. I drag my eyes away from his expression to see what made him so upset. Once I look at our room, it's evident.

One bed. No couch.

I've written this exact scenario before, but now that it's happening in my real life, rather than a fictional one, I regret putting my characters through such a compromising situation. Perhaps this is karma.

I feel the heat of his stare. I'm exhausted, hungry, and the chill from my wet clothes hasn't left. I want to get into a warm shower and order something to eat, so I walk in and say, "We'll make it work."

Grayson follows, shutting the door behind him. He removes his shoes and sits on the bed. "Do you like pizza?" he asks.

"I love it." My stomach rumbles.

He makes a quick call to order a pie. Once he sets down his phone and meets my eyes, he slowly rakes them down my body. "You go shower and hang your clothes to dry. You can wear my clothes," he says, which brings me back to the night we painted his wall. I wore his shirt, and it smelled like him . I vividly remember what happened shortly after, how he asked for it back and then touched me in such pleasant ways. My face must be crimson, because Grayson grins up at me, as if his thoughts took the same turn as mine. I look away and tuck myself in the bathroom. I remove my clothes and hang them to dry. Luckily, my underwear isn't wet.

The shower is pleasantly hot, slightly burning and making my skin red. I let the water pelt at my back for what feels like forever, chasing away the chill in my bones. I unwrap the bar of soap and rub it over my skin.

Once I've used up all the hot water, I take my time drying off. After turning the towel into a dress and slipping on my underwear, I glance in the foggy mirror. I swipe my hand across it. Once I see the leftover mascara beneath my eyes, I rub it away until my face is bare.

Steam follows me into the cold room, and my gaze immediately locks onto Grayson, who is standing by the door holding a pizza box.

He doesn't glance at my towel-wrapped body, but his eye contact is making me feel entirely bare. He sets the pizza on the bed. His next action changes the atmosphere when he reaches behind his neck and lifts his shirt over his head.

My eyes trace every exposed inch of him, from the hard lines of his abdominals to the delicate veins twisting through his arms. I promised myself I wouldn't turn into a puddle at the sight of anyone, but I know Grayson. I know his heart and I'll allow him to be the exception to my rule, because if I melt, I know he wouldn't abuse my puddle on the floor.

His body is a work of art that I wouldn't mind looking at for a while, but his smile is a spell, and I've been bewitched. Everything about him is masculine. Nothing boyish remains, except for the two shadows in his cheeks. His dimples are sprinkles of sugar, making him look oh so sweet.

"Here." He extends his shirt to me.

The heat beneath my skin makes me want to look down, but I don't. "Thank you." The fabric is soft in my hand. I put it on in the bathroom and wrap the towel around my wet hair. When I step out, he freezes with a slice of pizza in his hand, mid-bite.

I glance down at myself. His shirt stops above my knees. "What?" I ask, a bit self-conscious.

"You. In my clothes." He blows out a steady breath. "Second best to that outfit you wore the other night at The BARnacle." The night I told him how much his touch contrasted Walter's. I would think he was making fun of my appearance, but his gaze is gentle and seems to admire me as if I'm exquisite like something in a museum. "Come to bed," he gestures to the pizza box resting on it.

I lean against the headboard and pull the covers over my bare legs. Once I finish three slices, I lick my fingers clean and sigh with relief.

I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and am pleasantly surprised to find two toothbrushes wrapped in plastic, and a travel sized bottle of toothpaste. Grayson taps his knuckles on the opened door. Our eyes lock in the mirror and he saunters in with his usual grin. Our eyes never seem to stray from the other's reflection as we brush our teeth. He smiles when I get toothpaste foam all over my lips. Once we're finished, he turns and peers down at me, but I still watch his reflection. His features relax, and his gaze softens, then, he turns and leaves.

I turn the facet and splash cool water on my face. I grip the countertop firmly and inhale a deep breath. I step into the room, which is only lit by a single lamp, casting shadows on the walls and ceiling. Grayson is on the carpeted floor, head resting on a single pillow and a thin sheet draped over his tall body.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

He lifts his head, then rests it on his arm, as if he can't get comfortable. "Going to sleep. What are you doing?" His voice drips with sarcasm.

I sigh and move directly above him and pull the sheet off his body. His muscles tense from the cool air. "Get up."

He rolls over so he's on his back, eyes lifting to mine. "Why?"

"You're not sleeping on the hard floor."

"Are you volunteering for my place then?"

"Neither of us are sleeping on the floor," I say, stretching out my hand to pull him up. He's eyeing it for only a moment before he nods and takes it. I pull with all my might, and he doesn't budge. He chuckles and stands on his own. Rude .

I try not to overthink as I climb into bed, making myself comfortable at the very edge. I feel the mattress dip beneath his body weight. The comforter ruffles as he gets settled. He turns off the lamp closest to him. Darkness falls over us.

I drift to sleep before I wake up sometime later in the middle of the bed, curled against a warm chest with a solid arm draped over me. It feels as if my belly is full of wine, my blood running comfortably warm. I should move.

I nuzzle my face even more into his chest. He smells like strawberries and a hint of sea salt caught in the breeze on a summer day. He smells like home.

I startle from his voice, which vibrates through his chest. "Are you sniffing me?"

"No," I say immediately, lifting myself up on my elbow to move back to my side, but his palm presses me back down.

"Macy," he says in a broken whisper. "I don't want to play." His voice rasps over my skin and sinks into my pores, making my heartbeat too quickly. "Just for one night, can we stop pretending we're indifferent toward one another." His callouses delightfully caress down my arm.

My stomach cartwheels and I interlock our fingers, hidden away in the dark. I can hardly see him, but I angle my face until I feel the silk of his lips. I speak against them. "Only for tonight."

He's kissing me like he's moments from drowning and I'm the breath of air he needs to survive. Suddenly, I'm beneath him, and his weight eases an ache I hadn't realized was there. My legs wrap around him, and my vision adjusts enough to see him. His eyes darken as if the midnight sky has swallowed them whole.

The comforter cloaks us from the rest of the world. I lock my fingers behind his neck, and he turns his head to the side, his soft hair is tickling my face as he presses a kiss to my wrist. The big T-shirt bunches up to my waist, and his knuckles are a soft caress against my torso as he slowly removes it. Then his skin touches mine. His subtle chest hair is grazing the peeks of my breast with wonderful friction. His grin is a secret against my lips. I gasp against his mouth when he pinches the sensitive bud. He does it again to the other one, making my hips buck into his.

"Feel good?" I can hear the smirk in his voice.

I begin to pulse between my legs. "Yes." It comes out breathless.

His face is no longer above mine. I cry out when he kisses the places he pinched, and then swirls the tip of his tongue. He palms my chest, and his empty hand draws lazy patterns up and down my thigh, leaving gooseflesh in his wake.

I grip him over his pants and we both let out a pleasurable sound. I cup his jaw to bring his face back to mine. I move my lips over his neck, and he kisses my bare shoulder. The heat of his sporadic breath does nothing to tame mine.

I want to explore his body as he's done mine, so I slowly shimmy down beneath him, kissing the hard planes of his pectorals. He's planking over me. I press a kiss to the soft skin of his forearm with a giggle, which turns into a gasp as he slides off me and shimmies us around so that I'm laying above him. It makes it easier to kiss his abdomen. His muscles tense and relax beneath me, and once I get close to his navel, he squirms, and I grin. "You're ticklish here."

"Don't abuse that knowledge."

I do just that, digging my fingers into his skin and making him tense. He's quick to still my wrists, the size of his hands swallows them whole, as if he were holding toothpicks.

"Very cute, Mace."

I paint an innocent smile on my face.

"That smile is going to be my demise."

I crawl up the length of his body. He's hooking his finger beneath my chin so his gaze can burn into mine. "It's unfair," he says so closely to my mouth.

"What is?"

"For someone to look so divine." His lips touch mine, and he lowers his voice, making it come out deeper. "There are flecks of gold in your eyes, did you know that?" There are? "And your hair beneath the sun shines golden. It's heavenly, really." He sighs, like the beauty he describes is painful. "I think my favorite color might be gold."

His words are a drug, turning my blood molten and liquefying my heart to something that feels as pure as gold. His laugh comes and this time it's childish. Innocent. The cadence of it feels familiar, like a dream tugging at the edges of my mind that I can never fully grasp. "What were you like as a kid?" I find myself wondering out loud.

"Happy," he says, then lays flat on his back, pulling me down so my head rests upon his chest. "And sad."

"What made you happy?" I ask.

The dark room is devoid of sound, save for the hum of the air conditioning, for eleven heartbeats until he responds. "The sun."

I nearly ask what made him sad, but I want him to hang on to the sun. I want him to lay here with me, only remembering how it feels to be happy. After several minutes of focusing on his breath, it slows and becomes even. Each rise and fall feels like waves rolling over sand. Shortly after him, I fall asleep too, head on chest, skin against skin. It's one of the most intimate things I've ever felt.

It's easy to be bold in the dark, with shadows adorning you. But in the morning, with daylight pouring through the window, I glance down at my shirtless body and hurry to throw my clothes on, which are fully dry after hanging up all night.

Grayson stays asleep until I'm dressed, or he does a good job pretending. Once his eyes crack open, he smiles at me. It's a real smile, wide and cheeky, showing nearly all his teeth. I feel myself returning it, and it's as if the room at the Inn is floating in space, far away from the world.

My phone is dead from the day prior, so I plug it in the moment I'm home since Grayson was using his charger in the car. It's flooded with missed calls from my mother, but I don't bother returning any of them. I want to exist in a bubble, if only for today, and perhaps I'm na?ve to believe nothing can burst it.

I'm combing through my wet hair after taking a shower, the vanilla scent of my shampoo hanging in the air. I roll my eyes when I hear a demanding knock. I quickly wrap my hair in a towel and throw on denim shorts and a cropped tank top. I don't bother looking out the window, assuming it's Grayson here to demand I eat dinner with him. My smile slips as I swing open the door to find my parents standing there, side by side.

My dad turns to my mom. "I told you she was okay."

My irritated mom barges past me to enter the house, revealing what I had missed before. The man I begrudgingly agreed to marry and then effortlessly dumped over text.