Still, I want to know everything about him, so I push, “Did you serve real time?”
His eyes narrow just slightly.
“Do you like your job?” he shoots back.
There he goes again! Flipping the conversation before I can get close.
But I try anyway.
I lean in, give him a wide smile. “Come on, just tell me. A month? Two?”
He tilts his head, studying me like he’s deciding whetherto lie.
Then he frowns. “What the hell is that?”
“What?”
He gestures toward my forehead. “Right there. Is that a bruise?”
“Oh. That?” I wave it off. “I hit it on a doorknob. Total klutz moment.”
He chuckles, those hazel eyes sparkling with affection, and his wicked smile is mean and fond all at once. He taps the spot,hard, causing me to wince and balk.
“Poor, stupid Charlotte. My breakable little thing.”
But before I can protest, he yanks me closer and kisses the bruise, then trails his knuckles down my arm, slow and tender.
My body melts into his.
Because this is how he loves me... I hope. Not with words. Not with declarations. But with his palm against my thigh when we sit. With his jacket over my shoulders before I can even say I’m cold. With how he always asks,“You okay?”even if his tone sounds like an accusation.
Like now, when I squint into the sun and he grabs my bag, rummaging through it without asking.
He finds my sunglasses and slides them onto my face.
“You were squinting,” he mutters, gazing at the ocean.
That one gesture? It unravels me.
All the memories from these past few weeks rush back: Waking under blankets I didn’t remember pulling up. Waterbottles filled and set beside my purse. Texts when I work late:You okay? Need me to come get you?
And Monday, my gas tank was mysteriously full.
“Grayson... did you take my car?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t want you stranded somewhere.”
My heart squeezes.
He doesn’t even look at me as he mumbles, “A guy should take care of you. Make sure you’re safe.”
There it is again, like he’s handing off a job. Preparing me for when he stops showing up.
I pivot fast, my voice light. “You like taking care of me, huh?”
“Don’t make it a thing,” he mutters, a phrase of his I don’t like.
I poke his side. “But you do! You’re always looking out for me.”
