Page 26 of Paths
“Really, you don’t have to sta—”
“Drink your wine and watch TV,” I insist, turning up the volume. “Do you like all the shows or are there healthy nutsos on here that are your favorites?”
She finally gives up—hopefully for good this time—and I put my arm around her. “I like them all.”
As we settle in and watch some chick chop up something or other, she sips her wine and slowly sinks into my side. I bring my hand up to her hair and start to finger through it as I wonder about Maya. I wonder what went down tonight, her past, and why she’s here.
When this show ends and the next one begins, her weight becomes heavy and her breathing evens. I shift as she turns, settling her into my chest.
Just when I thought having Maya’s hands on my bare skin was everything, holding her as she sleeps just moved into first place. More of that focus I lost comes into view, but like before, it’s different.
All of a sudden, I don’t care about her background. I need to know it so I can get rid of that asshole giving her grief, but other than that, it doesn’t matter what’s in her past.
I’ll handle whatever I need to and hopefully pave a path for what could be an us. What I do know is having that to focus on feels almost as good as her sleeping against my side.
Focus and Maya—a lethal recipe I never imagined would be what I’d need to get me back to me. But as it settles by the second, I know this is it.
*****
Maya –
I roll, barely opening my eyes. It’s lighter than normal, making me shoot to a sitting position because it’s always dark when my alarm goes off. My eyes shift to my small nightstand to check the time. I’m late—really late.
As I jump out of bed, still in my sweater and lounge pants, the last thing I remember is watching Everyday Italian with Grady. I was warm and comfortable. I remember trying to talk myself out of being freaked out about Weston finding me, which is as bad as it could get, while allowing myself the comfort of Grady. I certainly don’t remember going to bed.
It takes ten minutes to get to work and I have to be there in fifteen. There’s no time for a shower.
I push down my pants and grab a pair of jeans off the floor. When I turn around, I yelp as Grady makes the turn into my bedroom saying, “You’re up.”
He stops immediately and his eyes drop to my bare legs.
It’s not like I’m indecent. I’m wearing panties and my sweater drops almost below them, but I still can’t help holding my jeans in front of me.
“What are you doing here?” I half-yell in an accusatory voice.
His gaze slowly moves up to my face, not at all trying to hide the fact he’s raking his eyes over me. When they finally reach mine, he shrugs, which I’m finding he does a lot. “Went home to shower and just got back.”
“You slept here?” For some reason, my voice keeps getting higher, accusing him of something, when really, he’s guilty of nothing besides sneaking up on me. Again.
“Sleep is a relative word with me. I dozed. You must make a habit of not being aware of your surroundings. You didn’t notice when I carried you to bed last night, or when I left to shower, or when I came back this morning. You should really be more cognizant.”
“I’m a heavy sleeper,” I say, my tone still accusing him, like it’s somehow his fault.
He tips his head and gives me a small smile. “Why are you talking to me like that?”
“Because you’re here and I’m not wearing any pants!” If that wasn’t the queen of accusations, I have no idea what would be.
He has the nerve to huff a single laugh and cross his arms, but he makes no move to leave my bedroom. “Then you should put your pants on.”
“You need to leave. I need to get dressed—I’m late and need to leave for the Ranch in less than five minutes.”
He looks me up and down again before slowly shaking his head. He turns, but I can still hear him say, “Then you’d better hurry, we need to be on our way.”
I was about to slam my bedroom door so I could dress in private, but I stop at his words. Instead I rush to the doorway and watch him dig through my refrigerator. “What do you mean we?”
Without taking his head out of my fridge, he answers, “Not letting you go to work alone while some asshole who thinks he’s gonna marry you is roaming the countryside.”
Still grasping my jeans, I declare, “You are not coming to work with me.”
