30. Grayson

Grayson

I 'm still walking down the sidewalk, clutching the pictures tightly in my fist, but I haven't looked at them again. Cars pass, and people stare, but I don't care. The world around me feels distant, blurred by the knowledge that my wife is alive. Not just alive, but possibly close by. One of the photos shows a familiar California burger place—In-N-Out—a favorite of Suzannah's. And Miranda knew. Tilly probably knows, too.

My legs suddenly feel weak, and I stop walking, sinking down onto the sidewalk. The weight of it all presses down on me.

Maggie knew. She must have figured it out. That's why she was so upset. I let my head fall into my hands, dejection settling deep in my bones.

A car pulls up, and I glance up to see Miranda in the driver's seat. "Gray, get in the car," she says, her voice soft but insistent.

I don't move, just stare out into the road. I hear the car door open and close as she comes to my side. She sits down next to me on the sidewalk, her presence both comforting and a reminder of the betrayal. "Look, I know this is… fucking crazy. Tilly and I were going to tell you last night, but we chickened out." She sighs heavily. "Greg's PI found her a few days ago."

The words hang in the air between us, and I still can't speak.

"Get in the car, Grayson. I'll take you home, and we can talk."

"Where is she? Where's Suzannah?" I finally ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I have no idea," Miranda admits. "But this is why we wanted you to change the life insurance, Gray. Don't you see what could happen?"

I shake my head. That's the last thing I want to revisit right now. It will need to be dealt with eventually, but not today. Handing the crumpled photos over to her roughly, I say, "Just go, Andy."

She hesitates, her eyes searching mine, but eventually, she gets up. "Call me if you need anything," she says before hurrying back to her car. I hear the car door slam, and her Jag speeds away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

For what feels like an eternity, I stay there on the sidewalk, trying to make sense of it all. Finally, I force myself to stand. I need to get home, away from the prying eyes of strangers and the noise of the city. As I walk, I find myself studying every face that passes, wondering if Suzannah could be among them. How many times have I walked by her without knowing?

When I reach Miranda's condo complex, where my car is parked, the realization hits me again—Suzannah is alive. My wife, the woman I had written off as dead. A part of me had always held on to the hope that she might return, but now that she's back, it feels like a cruel twist of fate. Damn her. For staying away. For not letting me know she was okay. For leaving George.

I reach my car, but the shock still has me paralyzed. I turn on the radio, letting the familiar sounds of a pop song wash over me. It's one of Maggie's favorites, and the thought of her brings a fresh wave of guilt.

Oh, Maggie. She's probably hurting. Finding out the man you love is still married can't be easy. I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, a sigh escaping me. I managed to hurt her without even trying.

Damn Suzannah. I'll never forgive her for this. I was in prison for two years, and I thought of my son every single day. It was the hardest time of my life. How could she have done that?

But then, the rational part of me cuts through the anger. Because she's sick, that little voice in my head says. I knew when she started taking the pills that things were spiraling, but there was nothing I could do. All the therapists and treatments seemed to only make things worse. Suzannah is sick, and I can't fault her for that. Maybe the love I had for her is gone, replaced by anger and hurt, but I can't just write her off.

I put the car in drive and head home. The drive is a blur, my mind too consumed to focus on anything but the mess my life has become. When I finally pull up to my place, I see Maggie sitting by the door, waiting for me. How did she…?

She stands as I approach. "Hi," she says, her voice tentative.

"Hello, Maggie." I give her a small smile, but my heart is racing. All I want is to wrap my arms around her, to apologize, to make things right.

"Can I come in? I think we should talk," she says, her voice soft but serious.

"Of course. Can I cook you some dinner?" I offer, hoping to delay the inevitable conversation, to hold onto a shred of normalcy.

Her face is unreadable. "Let's just talk first." That doesn't sound good. Her words send a pang of dread through me, and I feel my brows furrow in concern.

I unlock the door, and we step inside, the silence between us heavy. I can see the tension in her every movement, the way she's hugging herself, her eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape.

"Is something wrong?" I ask, though I know the answer. The way she's acting, I can only assume she's here to break things off. My life is a mess, and she doesn't need to be caught up in it. We stand there, still in the foyer, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on us. Her mouth opens like she wants to say something, but then it snaps shut again.

Just as I'm about to demand she explain, she flings her arms around me. "Oh, Grayson. You have no idea."

All the tension seeps out of my body as I pull her close. All I've wanted for the past two days is to hold her. I envelop her with my arms, rubbing calming circles on her back as her body trembles against me. "I might have some idea. But tell me, Maggie," I whisper, my voice gentle.

She pulls back, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she grabs both of my hands. She takes a deep, shaky breath. "We found Suzannah."

I'm quiet, absorbing the weight of her words. What can I say? Her honesty is almost too much, but I see the pain in her eyes and it's almost my undoing. Still, I manage to keep my expression neutral.

"Your wife, Grayson. While investigating this contract, she popped up."

I don't know how she expects me to react, so I stay still, afraid that any movement might push her away. "Say something, Gray!" she pleads, her voice breaking.

"I know," I finally say.

"You know?"

"Miranda told me, kind of."

She squeezes my hands tighter. "But you're so calm!"

I can't help but chuckle, though it's tinged with sadness. Her emotions are always so clear, written right in her beautiful eyes. And what I see there now reassures me—she doesn't want to leave. She's hurting for me. "I'm not calm inside, believe me."

I walk over to the couch and take a seat, patting the cushion next to me. Her head tilts to the side, lips pressed into a thin line. "Gray, you don't have to pretend with me," she says as she sits beside me, curling up close. My arm automatically goes around her, my fingers tracing soft circles on her skin.

"I'm not pretending. I'm just in shock, I think." She doesn't speak, sensing that I have more to say. "I'm angry, mostly. That she stayed away. Not from me, but from George."

"I saw her, Grayson. She thinks she's too damaged to be around him." Maggie tenses beneath me, and I pull her closer, trying to soothe her. These words aren't meant to hurt her—they're the truth, and somehow, they're giving me the clarity I need. "She's, uh, pregnant but sober."

My hand freezes. My wife is pregnant with another man's child. The anger bubbles up again, but I force myself to exhale slowly. "I'm so sorry, Gray. If you need me to leave…" she trails off, her voice trembling.

I shake my head firmly. "You being here is the only thing that feels right, Maggie."

She turns to look up at me, her eyes searching mine. "You're sure? I really thought you would hate me after this."

My head jerks back in surprise. "Really? Why?"

"Because I kept it from you."

"No, you didn't. You told me last night you had to keep something from me until you could get more information. I'm going to guess that's what you were doing today. Tilly and Andy didn't tell me, and they, well, they probably had their reasons." It's true. Despite my moody tendencies, I know they're the most supportive people in my life.

Tears brim in her eyes, and I cup her cheek, my thumb brushing away the first tear that falls. "Maggie, are you okay?"

She nods, but then the sobs burst out, and she buries her face in my chest. "Woah, Mags. What's going on?" I ask, concern lacing my voice.

Between sobs, she chokes out, "You're so… so perfect!"

I grin, using a finger to lift her chin so she can see the humor in my eyes. "Hardly."

"Then how do you explain this? How can you not be mad at me, or screaming, or freaking out?"

I run my hand through my hair, trying to find the right words. "I am freaking out. But you're with me, and I don't know, it's just easier."

She shakes her head, tears still streaming down her face. "The truth is, Maggie, the minute I found you, things just clicked for me. I started imagining a future again, things I wanted, and how I could make you happy. I hadn't done that in a very long time." Seeing her cry is more painful than finding out Suzannah is alive. I wipe her tears away with both thumbs, holding her gaze. With a small smile, I kiss the tip of her nose.

Maggie clutches onto my shirt, her voice barely above a whisper. "Stop, Grayson. Please."

"No." We both chuckle, knowing I won't. Her hands mirror mine, cupping my cheeks, and she rubs her thumbs over the scruff on my jaw.

"Maggie," I whisper, and she tilts her head up, meeting me halfway as our lips press together. My hands slip around her waist, pulling her closer as our mouths open, tongues sliding together. Each second we're connected, the tension in my chest loosens, replaced by a warmth that spreads through my whole body. Her kiss is everything—tender, passionate, perfect. She is perfect.

It's a long time before she pulls away. "Thank you, Grayson," she says, her words making my heart swell with affection. I can't help but smile.

"You're welcome," I reply, and we both laugh at the simplicity of the response.

"Now that that's out of the way," I say, standing up and offering her a hand. She takes it, confusion flickering across her face. "Come on, let me teach you how to cook real spaghetti."

She pops to her feet with a playful sigh. "No jars?"

I growl, shooting her a mock glare over my shoulder. "I'll take that as a 'never.'"

In the kitchen, she hops onto the counter, watching as I start gathering ingredients. Tomatoes, garlic, onions, and some green peppers for my sauce. I hand her a knife and some garlic to chop while I search for noodles.

Once the sauce is simmering, I wipe my hands on a towel and stand in front of her. She looks more relaxed now, her earlier tension gone. "Maggie?" I ask, my tone signaling that I have something serious to say.

"Uh, yes?" Her eyes dart nervously around the kitchen.

"There's this thing my cousins are putting together…" She exhales loudly and nods with a broad smile. "See, they need more volunteers."

"Oh?"

I smack her playfully with the towel, and she giggles. "What kind of volunteers?"

"They did some contest for at-risk youth and are going to fly them in from all over the country. Ten, I think. They're going to teach them to surf and serve good food."

Her face brightens, and I quickly add, "And I can't go."

Her expression falls. "Why not?" I gesture to my chest, and she snickers, understanding my situation. "Will you go in my place?"

I barely finish the question before she's nodding enthusiastically. "Of course! I love doing those kinds of things! Oh, can Harry come too? He surfed when he was younger, I think. Well, I don't think—I know. I just mean I think he'd like to help." It's adorable how fast she's babbling, and I step closer, resting my hands on the counter behind her.

"Maggie?"

She looks up at me, her eyes wide, and I can't help but smile. "I need to shower while that cooks." Her cheeks flush a soft pink, and I lean down to kiss her neck, feeling her shiver in response. "And I'm terrible at washing my back."

She giggles, her fingers tightening in the fabric of my shirt as our lips meet again. But if she's expecting the wolf, the demanding man, to take her hard and fast, she's in for a surprise. I keep the kiss slow, letting our tongues move together in a dance that's more about love than lust. The longer it goes on, the more my passion grows, but I hold back, savoring the moment.

When I finally pull away, she's breathless, her hands still clutching my shirt. "Gray?" she whispers, her voice laced with anticipation. "Make me dirty first?"

My fucking pleasure. Baring my teeth, I nip at her neck, then sink to my knees. Maggie strips off her pants, and before I know it, she's back on the counter, scooting to the edge, her legs spread wide.

Her pussy is glistening with arousal, and the sight alone has me nearly undone. "Look at you," I say, my voice husky with desire. My eyes roam her body, taking in every detail, even with her shirt still on. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. "Tell me what you want, Maggie."

"Taste me, Gray," she moans, her head falling back against the cupboard. "Make me feel you."

I dive in, my tongue leading the way as I swipe from her ass to her clit in one long, slow stroke before latching on. Her hands fly to the cupboard behind her, gripping it tightly as she gasps. The sound drives me wild, and I bite down gently, just enough to make her squeal. "Tastes so fucking good, Maggie," I murmur before flattening my tongue and swirling it around her sensitive peak. Her thighs clamp around my ears, and I use my hands to spread her back open, keeping her in place as I devour her.

My fingers dig into the firm muscles of her thighs, kneading them as I work. She's whimpering now, so close to the edge. I lick and suck, my own arousal straining against my pants, but I focus on her, on the sounds she's making—those perfect, desperate mewls that could push me over the edge if I let them.

"Maggie, baby, God," I moan. She tenses, her body going rigid as she teeters on the brink. "Yes, Gray!" she cries out, and I know she's ready. I slide two fingers inside her, hooking them just right, and she jolts as if I've shocked her before screaming my name.

"Graaaayyy!"

I can't help but smile, even as I keep my mouth on her, my tongue working her through her orgasm. Her hands dive into my hair, clutching as she rides out the waves of pleasure, her body bucking and writhing against my face.

When she finally slows, I pull back, leaning on my knees to catch my breath as I look up at her. My heart feels too full, like it might burst from the sheer satisfaction of seeing her like this. When her breathing evens out, she gives me a lazy, satisfied smile and takes my hand, guiding me to stand.

Her mouth meets mine in a fiery kiss, and I revel in the taste of her still on my lips. I love how she's not afraid of her own juices on my tongue. It's sexy as hell and only makes me want her more. But I have to release her lips if I have any hope of making it through a shower before our dinner burns.

"Ready?" I ask, grinning because I know she is. She nods and starts to walk away, but I hold her back, smirking as she looks over her shoulder, confused. "Stir your sauce, woman. We don't want any sticking—well, in our food anyway." I wiggle my eyebrows, and she rolls her eyes, laughing as she dutifully stirs the pot.

I check over her shoulder to ensure it's simmering properly before lowering the heat. That should buy us thirty minutes. "Good?" she asks.

I kiss her cheek. "Perfect." When she heads toward the bathroom, I don't stop her, but I do give her a playful smack on her bare ass. She yelps, then sprints away, and I'm right behind her, ready to make sure she's thoroughly attended to in the shower.