“I know.”
A beat.
“Thanks, though,” he says, quieter this time, like it costs him something to mean it. But he adds, lower, “Such a good girl. You like being useful to me, don’t you?”
I shrug, acting like it’s no big deal. But inside, I’m glowing.
That’s what good girlfriends do. Even if he refuses to call me that.
Still... he always looks soconfusedwhen I do things for him. Like the idea of someone caring for him is completely foreign.
Like it makes him itch.
He shows up at work again, his usual reserved attitude all over his chiseled face.
Like always, no “hi,” no hug, just a gruff: “Hurry up.”
Then, he snatches my hand and tugs me toward the door before I can even clock out.
He decides where we go and when we go.
And like always, I followjoyfully.
Because when it’s just us out on the pier, legs pressed together beneath the table, seagulls overhead and salt hanging in the air, he’s all mine.
He never says it. But Ifeelit.
I hold the sub sandwich he bought me and eat it merrily. He leans back, looking relaxed, so handsome with the ocean behind him.
He smells like cologne now, clean and sharp, but I can still catch hints of sun-baked salt, sweat, and whatever cheap soap he uses at the docks.
I know the truth. He scrubs up before seeing me. Always a fresh shirt. Face washed. Hands red from scrubbing the grime from his knuckles.
“Grayson,” I say softly, “you don’t have to clean up every time you bring me lunch.”
“Yes, I do.” He cuts me off. His tone is sharper than I expect. “Don’t eat with guys who won’t put on a clean shirt. Fuck, they should be willing to crack skulls for a girl like you.”
He shrugs, like he didn’t just say something terrifyingly sweet.
That stings, though. The way it always does when he talks like I’ll ever be having lunch with someone else.
Like he’s warning me.Trainingme. But I force a smile and let it roll off.
I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and say, “Do you like your job?”
He shrugs. “It’s work. Pays cash. Not a lot, but they don’t give a shit about my record.”
My brows pinch. “Wait. You have a record?”
He doesn’t blink. “Brax didn’t tell you?”
“No...”
“Stole a purse... some other stuff. Dumb, young, and broke.” He tears off a piece of bread and pops it into his mouth.
“Oh,” I say. “Well, that’s not so bad.”
He gives me a look like he knows I’m trying too hard to spin it positive.
