6. Grayson

CHAPTER 6

Grayson

B ack and forth to the shop and then home to make dinners that make my heart flip in my chest.

Her pale skin is even paler, the freckles on her pert little nose standing out like little polka dots that I long to run my lips over. I can see them disappearing under her tank top and I want to drag that damn shirt down, tracing them with my tongue.

I don't know what's gotten into me lately but all I do is dream about my sexy neighbor. Who knew hell was a cute little cottage on a mountain with a red-headed terror next door?

She ducks out the door of her shop again and I sigh from where I'm watching across the street. Why the hell can't she stay put for five damn minutes? She's like a hummingbird on sugar water. Never still, always flailing around and beating the air with her wings. Er…hands.

Jesus! I run my hands through my hair and I know it must be standing straight up in the air right now.

She's driving me crazy. She's making me remember things I wish to hell I could forget.

Like the reason I can't be with a woman like her. She's too good for me by far.

My dad was a bastard of the first order. The man didn't yell. Oh hell no! That was too easy.

His game of choice was torture. Not that he ever called it that.

By the time my mom ran, not being able to stand his incessant nagging and drinking, I was about ten years old and had no one left to defend me.

I roll up my shirt up and over my forearms, staring down at the tattoo that I added on my tan skin as soon as I was old enough. I wanted to cover up the reminders of what he'd done. The tattoo artist did an amazing job even with the scars hidden there. He somehow managed to work them into the design so that they blended seamlessly and nobody could see that they were scars unless they looked very closely.

But I knew they were there. I know that they're part of my legacy from my old man. He was a bastard. I'm a bastard. That part of me is burned deep, just like those scars. And just like those scars, they hurt me and everyone who loves me.

I don't think I mean to be deliberately mean. I just don't know how to do relationships. The only one that I had for part of my life was a fucking sick, twisted mess with no way out for a little boy.

I used to get furious at my brother. He got out. Mom took him and ran, then she filed for divorce. I never saw her or my brother again.

I could have after I left home and went to New York to join the police force there. But by that point, I had no idea how to be a better man. No idea how to release all that hurt and anger and let it all go. Just be happy that I got out eventually and that I had a friend like Colt.

Whenever my Dad was on one of his tears, I could always call Colt or even just turn up and he would ask his parents to let me stay the night. Or two.

And they always welcomed me with open arms. When she graduated from college, they went on a cruise together. One of my trips. Each one brought them back home, happy, tanned and more in love than before.

Until the last one. That last trip to Scotland is burned into my brain. April 2o19. Before the pandemic and yet it completely took away something that Colt, I and Raine relied on.

Their parents. Both of them died in an awful plane crash along with 2o0 other passengers.

I can still see Raine standing beside the grave, her body sagging into Colt, her eyes glittering with tears that streamed down her cheeks until she turned to sob into Colt's shoulder.

I wanted so much to be the one that held her. But she would barely look at me. And that cut me like a knife. I know I hurt her when I pushed her away. Lied to her actually.

But I wanted to take care of her.

And that's when I realized that no matter how far or fast I ran, I would always want Raine Showers. She was it for me.

And I told her to get lost. That I didn't want or need her.

I'm an absolute idiot.

So I went back home, licking my wounds and tried to forget her by diving into work with a vengeance.

No such luck though. Every girl with copper hair that I saw made my heart race, my body tighten. But not one of them had her glorious soft green eyes and her smile.

And seeing her walking around town, smiling at every swinging dick around here has my inner caveman roaring like a maniac.

She's in trouble and she's not taking it seriously. And if she won't, then I fucking will.

I step out of my brand-new SUV and stomp over to where she's chatting up yet another visiting male in town. You'd think she was on the fucking welcome committee!

But nope! She just likes people.

I slam to a standstill behind her and eye the asshole up, my arms crossed over my broad chest to keep from dragging her back against me and biting her neck or something to leave a damn mark.

But I shouldn't be doing that. She's not mine. She may never be mine.

But I'll be damned if I'm gonna stand around and let some slick dick stare down her low-cut tank top like he's got the keys to the kingdom or something.

That shit's mine. If I can figure out how to do it without her killing me or my best friend disowning me.