“I don’t even want to know what that little grin is about,” she says with a laugh. “But you have to see this for what it is, okay? Chemistry’s been building between the two of you for practically forever, and the lid was just removed from the … what do they do chemistry experiments in?”
I shrug. “Canisters? Vials? Beakers?”
“Insert the appropriate word because I don’t know either.” She shrugs. “But it’s hit the boiling point. It’s time. He knows it, or he never would’ve let what happened today happen.”
She does make a point. And, better yet, it’s logical. It’s not based on my desire for round two but facts from an outside perspective.
Grayson doesn’t just hook up with women at the bar and stumble out with them on a Wednesday night. It doesn’t happen—it’s never happened in all the time I’ve worked at Fireside. His modus operandi isn’t to mess with women’s heads or to lure them in and then walk away.
And no one, and I mean no one, talks badly about him.
Well, not women anyway. There are men who have tangled with him here and there, and he’s never a favorite of the random patrons he helps Corbin eject when things get rowdy. But women don’t whisper behind his back that he’s a jerk or a player.
That says something.
Right?
“Can I tell you something?” she asks, her voice hesitant.
“Sure.”
She wiggles around on the sofa before finding an acceptable position. A long sigh escapes her before she goes for it.
“It’s been a year since my marriage took its first blow.” She frowns. “And I’ve spent the past twelve months—more if you count the months leading up to our divorce when I didn’t see the writing on the wall—piddling through life. Surviving. Putting one foot in front of the other because I have a daughter who needs more than me ensconced in bed with pizza every day.”
“Look at how far you’ve come, though,” I say earnestly.
“Absolutely. I am. No doubt. But … but I’ve wasted a lot of time just surviving. And before you say anything, I was in survival mode for a reason. I get it. It’s acceptable. But”—she pauses, wiggling around again—“I’ve missed out on a lot of my life by not living it. And the one date I went on was so damn bad …”
I can’t help but laugh at thoughts of her date with the cheese deliveryman and how he talked about himself the entire two-hour period. And how Kaylee retreated to the bathroom, called me, and instructed me to text her with an emergency in precisely six minutes so she could escape.
“I gave up after that. I retreated back into survival mode because, while it gave me nothing to look forward to in life and basically muted me, it was safe. I liked safe.” She reaches over and takes my hand. “But safe is not living. Safe is no fun. And you are too young, too gorgeous. The world is full of so many opportunities that living safe is not an option for you.”
“Or you.”
She rolls her eyes and withdraws her hands. “This isn’t about me.”
I fall back into the pillows. I appreciate her words of wisdom, and they do make sense. But still …
“It feels different this time,” I tell her. “I don’t know if I’m usually prepared for things to fizzle out, but I’m not disappointed when it does. It sucks, and I wallow around in self-pity for a while, but I never feel disappointed.”
“Because that feels safe.”
“Maybe.” I frown. “With Grayson, it’s so different. On the one hand, it’s surreal. But on the other, it’s comfortable in the scariest kind of way.”
She smiles. “Of course it is because it’s not the safe road—which makes it right. Love is a scary thing.”
I narrow my eyes, making her laugh.
“I’m being serious,” I say. “This isn’t love. An infatuation, maybe. Definitely lust. But I can’t get all hung up on it.”
Even though I think I already am.
She grabs her phone off the coffee table. “It’s Anna. She’s locked herself out of the house. Again.”
“Hide a key.”
“I have,” she says, standing. “Twice. And she takes the key to get in and then leaves it in the house or loses it. Do you know how many house keys I have floating around Cherry Falls?”
“You probably need to address that.”
She laughs. “Yeah, but it’s Cherry Falls. So what’s the worst that could happen?”
“True.”
She pulls me into a warm hug. “If you need me, call me, and I’ll come back. Or you can come over, and we can have a sleepover. I’ll even cuddle with you.”
I grin. “You’re the best.”
“I know.” She heads for the door. “Just don’t overthink this with Grayson. Let it percolate naturally. Let it flow—not to be confused with let it go.” She opens the door. “I’m so, so sick of that song.”
“Bye, Kay.”
“Bye, Haley.”
The door shuts softly.
I fall back on the sofa again. An invisible weight sits cock-eyed on my chest, and I can’t seem to slide it off or just let it crush me. It’s in an uncomfortable angle that makes my insides squirm.
Love is a scary thing.
Out of all of the things that Kaylee said, this is the one that echoes in my brain.
Love is terrifying, I bet. I wish I knew. Despite wanting desperately to find love, to fall blissfully into it—to have the kind of love that I read about and want to write about someday—I’ve never experienced it.
All of the dates I go on—all the guys I have half-assed relationships with—they haven’t been love. Even if I pretend it is or gush about them to Kaylee or write my first name with their last name on napkins just to see what it would look like—that’s me wishing. Hoping. Maybe I’m even trying to make love happen.
But do I know what it feels like? No. Have I ever been in love? Nada.
I’m sure of that. But I also am fully, acutely aware that what I feel in my gut about Grayson—the way I get overwhelmed with a mixture of excitement and calm, chaos and comfort—is nothing like I’ve ever felt for another man before.
It’s lust, and naturally, that’s no stranger to me. But it’s different.
It’s natural. It’s steady. It’s so organic that if I had the courage to think about it, I might wonder if this was the beginning of a love story.
If I’m writing them all wrong.
If it’s not the hero’s voice that I’m confused about, but rather what love feels like … for me. And I wonder if I’ll ever know.
“Whoa,” I say, getting to my feet. “You’re going to need to stop this crap and keep firmly planted in reality.”
I begin picking up from our lunch and try to keep my mind focused on the present. But in the back of my head, in the dark recesses that don’t fear things like heartbreak and humiliation, I ponder if this could be the earliest stages of something real.
That Grayson could be the man—not the book hero—who I’ve been after all along.
Nine