2. Macy

Chapter 2

Macy

M inutes tick by before either of us says a word, almost like it's a challenge of who will break and start a conversation first. I fiddle with my thumbs, fine with sitting in silence. The light above our booth flickers, giving me a headache.

"Where are you from?" Grayson eventually asks, losing our silent battle by default.

"Idaho."

His earlier assessment was accurate. He grins. "Do you like it?"

No one has ever asked me that before. "No," I admit.

"Are you moving to Florida?"

"No." I bite my tongue before I spill my entire life story to him. Twenty-year-old me would be beaming if she were in my current scenario, since it's something out of the countless romance novels I consume like water. Either my frontal lobe has developed significantly since then, or the na?ve trust I had in the world slowly died the more I've gotten to know my fiancé.

A waiter sets down two glasses of water. I grab mine and take a long sip through the straw. Grayson orders the chicken tender appetizer, which according to the waiter is big enough to share.

"So, if you don't like Idaho, and you're not moving to Florida, what are you doing?"

I sit up straighter. I can only hope he sees fire sweltering in my eyes. "None of your business." Direct and to the point, nothing like that twenty-year-old girl. I nearly nod in approval at my newfound boldness. Some would call me a bitch, hell, a younger version of me probably would, but I don't owe this stranger who's told me nothing of himself aside from his name details about my life.

He stares at me for several seconds, and I shift in discomfort. When he doesn't peel his gaze from me, I ask, "Are you enjoying yourself?" I cross my arms.

It's as if he's looking directly through me, and then he frowns. He clears his throat, like he's pushed aside whatever thought he had. "Yes. I am, actually."

The waiter brings our food and a basket of fries. I'm suddenly too hungry to care about Grayson or the prospect of him potentially stealing my kidney after this. I grab a chicken tender, dip it into ketchup, and take a huge bite. Thankfully, he's silent as we eat. Once I'm finished, I suck the grease off my fingers and let out a sigh of relief.

"You eat like an animal," he says.

"Was I not enough of a lady for you?" I roll my eyes.

"You were perfectly lovely," he says with what I assume is sarcasm. Asshole. "What do you do for a living?" he asks.

"Why should I tell you?"

"Because I'm buying you dinner, depending on the answer."

My lips part. The audacity of this unfiltered man is bewildering. "While you've been interrogating me , you haven't shared a single detail about yourself. How do I know you're not a serial killer?"

"You don't think I would've been caught by now?"

"People tend to overlook red flags if someone's good looking enough."

He grins. "You think I'm good looking."

Oops. "No."

"You can't take it back." He places his palm over his chest. "I'll store your compliment right here."

I search the restaurant for our waiter, hoping we get the check.

"I work in finance," he says. "You're turn."

For some reason that I can't explain, I answer before I can bite my tongue. "I'm an author."

His eyes seem to light up before he steals his expression. "What do you write?"

"Romance."

"No," he says, disagreeing with me.

I reel back, squinting my eyes. "Yes."

"Nope. I don't buy it."

"Buy it or don't buy it." I shrug, indifferent to his opinion.

"I've never heard of an author named Macy Brookes."

"Of course, you haven't. I write as Minerva Day." My eyes widen at my slip-up. "If you tell anyone my real name, I'll offer you up for a blood sacrifice."

He laughs, yet the sound seems foreign coming from him, like an old book that's been tucked away, coated in a layer of dust. "Did my little Tato just make her first joke?" He touches his chest. Before I can chastise him for using the word "my" as though I'm his possession, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and types something.

"What are you doing?" I whisper. He turns his phone around, showing me the three Minerva Day books he put in his Amazon cart. Something strange happens to my chest. Not because I'm embarrassed for him to read my writing, but because no one in my life has ever shown interest in my work.

I wrote my first book when I was seventeen. When I closed my laptop after writing The End, I ran downstairs to tell my parents. They're reaction was underwhelming, despite the pride I felt and the stammering of my heart that told me this was just the beginning.

When I was twenty, and finally learned how to self-publish my book, I felt like I could conquer the world. Walter was the first person I called, and all he said was, "That's cool."

When he got home that night, he didn't bring it up. No one did, for that matter. The parade of joy happening within never touched my external world. No one cared. Strangers read my books and wrote reviews, but no one in my life read a single page.

I celebrated my achievements alone.

And now, Grayson, who I met not even two hours ago, put three of my books in his cart the second he found out I wrote them. "Wow," he whispers more to himself. "This one has eleven thousand reviews!"

I look away from him before he can see the confusing emotions I try to bury.

"Here's the check, whenever you're ready." The waiter sets the bill down. I quickly unzip the small pocket to my suitcase, reach my hand inside, and try to feel for my credit card. Grayson stills my wrists beneath the table.

"I'm sure you could buy like five hundred chicken tender platters, but I have the sudden urge to be a gentleman, so put your wallet away."

"I'm not putting out because you paid for a greasy meal, if that's what you're thinking."

He flinches and his eyebrows drop, forming a crease between them. "That's not even close to what I was thinking."

With reasons unbeknownst to me, I believe him.

He's quiet when he signs the bill and slides out of the booth, and like the gentleman he claims he has the urge to be, he grabs my suitcase and rolls it behind him so I don't have to.

"Oh, you don't have to do that," I say, to which he ignores me. I clear my throat. "Thanks." He simply nods.

Stepping outside, I wrap my arms around myself as the nighttime chill goes through my clothes. The city is even more alive this late into the night, with girls dressed in sequined miniskirts, gathering in a bar right across from the diner. Waitresses and waiters stumble along the sidewalk, like they are finally done with their shifts, walking back to their apartments. A woman smoking a cigarette walks past with her little white dog. There's life on every corner, chaos, and even a little shouting here and there.

I start walking toward the ginormous hotel. Grayson lengthens his strides to catch up to me. "You don't have to follow me," I say, looking forward. "You can give me my luggage and I'll be on my way."

A man tucked away in the alley shoots me a hungry look. His eyes seem to travel down my body, leaving me feeling filthy. I pull my shoulders back and pickup my pace.

"I'm not leaving you alone. Besides, I need a hotel room for the night too."

I wouldn't admit it to him, but I hoped he wouldn't. Men don't infringe in other men's space, and I know if I'm within Grayson's, I'll be safe from their advances.

I tuck my hands into the pocket of my hoodie and fumble with my thumbs. We step through automatic doors and into the grand lobby of the hotel and walk up to the front desk.

"I need to book a room for a night or two," I say.

"I'm sorry, miss. We are booked for tonight," the man behind the counter says.

"How can you be booked? There are hundreds of rooms in this place."

"We book several weeks in advance."

I glance at the lobby, noticing women in dresses sitting with men who wear suits, sipping cocktails. A server who holds a silver tray hands a lady a drink, then takes the empty glass she holds. I'll admit this place is fancy, but acquiring a waitlist ? Is the toilet paper made of gold or something?

"I checked out about four hours ago. Is my room still available?" Grayson speaks up, handing him his driver's license. The clerk types away at the computer.

My pulse slams into my ears. I am about to leave to find another hotel, but Grayson grabs ahold of my elbow, stilling me.

"Your room won't be filled until tomorrow afternoon. If you don't mind the beds being unkept, I can extend your stay."

"Perfect," Grayson says, accepting a plastic card the clerk hands to him.

I pull my arm away.

"You can have the room," Grayson says.

I look at him hesitantly and then shake my head to decline his offer.

"It wasn't up for choice, here." He hands me the card key.

A large part of me realizes how much I need this room, considering how late it's getting. I don't want to explore the streets by myself, but the smaller, more prideful part doesn't want to accept his help. It's a strenuous effort not to leave, and I hope my silence is an answer in itself.

"All right then, it's settled. I'll walk you to your room," he says, already making his way toward the elevators. I catch up to him.

"That's really unnecessary," I say, when he follows me into the elevator.

There is no hint of that sarcastic grin. He looks genuine when he says, "I'll stay at the other end of the hallway if it makes you feel better. I just need to see you make it to your room safely. Peace of mind and all." He whispers the last part, his gaze faraway as if something sparked his memory. I don't know what compels me to grant him peace of mind, but I nod.

I shift up and down on my toes, unable to sit still. "Is there a bar here?" I ask before thinking.

Grayson's left eyebrow raises. "Probably."

I slowly nod my head. The elevator opens with a ding. He gestures with his arm for me to exit first, following directly after. The narrow hallways smells of essential oils, as though the hotel spa is on this floor too.

"You want to go to the hotel bar?" he asks.

"No."

"I can tell you do." He grins.

"I don't." I kind of do. There's one bar where I live, and Walter threw a fit the first and only time I went there with some girls I went to college with.

I search for my room, going in the wrong direction when Grayson calls, "This way." I follow him down the rows of doors, until we get to room 9500.

I don't move to grab the key card from my pocket. Something deep down urges me to follow that call, the one shouting at me to live. Not just survive the day, but really, truly live. I'm in New York City for the first time in my life. I want to see it. Experience something new.

I observe Grayson standing before me. There's a hint of stubble on his face, like he hasn't shaved in a couple of days. His dark brown hair lays in a way that looks like he just rolled out of bed, but he doesn't look sloppy. He looks good. It's infuriating, to be quite honest.

As irritating as he is, he seems trustworthy. At least to accompany me to the bar. Plus, he's freakishly tall, meaning no one is going to mess with me as long as I'm seen standing near him. The only downside is the ego boost he'd get if I asked.

He leans against the wall, crossing his arms with a hint of a grin playing on his lips. His eyes drop to my throat the second I swallow. My body tenses as he slowly leans into me, gaze never straying from mine.

He carefully brings his hand into the front pocket of my sweatshirt and grabs my key card. He steps out of my proximity and opens the door, holding it for me to enter. There's a tingle in the air as I pass him, taking my suitcase back as I do so. I set it on one of the beds, eyes glued to the view out the window. The city glitters with a million flecks of light coming from the tall buildings. Cars line the streets and tiny ants of people parade around like it isn't almost eleven p.m.

"It's no Idaho, I'm sure," he says from the door, his voice husky and deep.

I turn around.

"I've never seen a city so alive," he says, voice soft with something akin to awe. "Have you?" He steps into the room. I should tell him to leave, but instead I shake my head.

I haven't seen even one percent of the world outside of Idaho and a small island in Florida. I haven't done much of anything, despite the books I write where my characters fall in love somewhere beautiful in my imagination. Everything I've never had lives within the pages of a story for people to read.

"Let's go somewhere." His lips spread into a wolfish grin. My heart stammers from the sight, which is completely not okay with me.

It's a tempting idea. "No."

He shakes his head, like he can see through me. "Get ready. I'll change in the closet," he says, removing his backpack and bringing it with him into the surprisingly large space. I guess fancy hotels with waitlists come with walk-in closets . He doesn't give me room to object.

I unzip my bag and pull an army green dress out of my suitcase. I only packed flip flops, tennis shoes, and a pair of black high-top Converse, no heels to go with it.

I hide away in the bathroom to change and brush my teeth. I comb mascara through my eyelashes and pinch my cheeks to mimic blush.

Grayson is already done changing by the time I come out. He's wearing dark gray suit pants and a button-down with the cuffs rolled up, showing off his forearms. "The airline still has my checked bag. I put my business clothes in my backpack, so I'd remember to take it to the dry cleaner when I get home." He shrugs when he sees me eyeing his outfit. I don't say anything as I bring my hair over my shoulder and work out the tangles with my fingers.

"Do you have a jacket?" he asks, while unzipping his backpack and pulling out a folded blazer that matches his pants.

"No," I say right as he hands it to me.

"You might get cold." His eyes rake over my dress. "Wow," he whispers.

I blink at him. I wore this dress last week to change things up when Walter and I went to the restaurant we eat at every Wednesday night. I wasn't surprised when he didn't compliment my appearance, but I was foolishly disappointed.

Instinctively, I reach for my left hand, feeling the need to twist the engagement ring that always digs into my finger, except I only feel my bare skin. I glance down, about to rummage through my bag to find it, but I already know where it is. The counter in the airport bathroom, where I left it to wash my hands. It's probably stolen by now. I should be more upset than I am, but it feels more like fate is slapping me across the face.