Page 38 of Her Pretty Words

“You better not go soft on me, Mace.” He’s closer now. “I lied before. I do know one thing that brings me joy.” He breathes, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind my ear. “Arguing with you is my greatest rapture.” He’s impossibly closer. “Your fire is thrilling.” His voice is like liquid dripping down my skin.

There is too much space separating us, yet not enough. I want to pull him close yet push him away. His eyes darken as if he can see the thoughts clearly on my face.

I break the wave of tension consuming us by looking away and saying, “It’s getting late.”

He simply says, “Sleep in my bed.”

My eyes widen.

“No, I mean, you sleep in my bed, and I’ll sleep out here on the couch.”

I tilt my head. “That’s ridiculous.”

“The sheets are clean.” He shrugs.

“No, I mean, why would I sleep here? My bed is right next doo—” And then the image of my grandparent’s collection, ruined and shattered, comes to mind and I feel my expression fall.

“My room is down the hall on the left,” he says, grabbing a throw blanket off the back of his couch and getting comfortable.

“I’ll sleep on the couch if anything.”

“No,” he says definitively, rolling on his side and shutting his eyes.

I hesitantly stand and look at the hallway, then back at Grayson. “Are you sur?—”

“Go,” he all but growls the words.

“Fine,” I mumble. As I enter the hallway I look back. “Thank you.”

His eyes are still closed when he smiles subtly.

The door to his room is already open, the bed unmade since he was laying in it when he heard my cries. I shut the door behind me and take in the simple space. His bedding is light gray, and like the rest of his house, there are no decorations. My attention snags on his bedside table, and I realize there is a tiny picture frame. I walk up to it and see that it’s not a picture, but a note. Written in childlike handwriting on a piece of notebook paper says, “I love you, Grayson.”The “a” in his name is backward and it is written in purple marker. A child no older than five or six must have written it.

I climb into his bed. It smells like him, and when I wrap myself in his plush comforter, my heart aches. I realize as I stare at the framed note, it was angled directly at the bed, so he’d see it before falling asleep and the moment he woke up.I know nothing about Grayson.As slumber washes over me, I dream of blue eyes like the ocean raging with pain of the greatest storm.

I climb out of Grayson’s bed and look for the bathroom, which is conveniently right across from his room. I comb my fingers through my hair and splash water on my face. I put some mint toothpaste on my finger and rub my teeth with it.

His living room is empty, and his throw blanket is folded on the back of his couch like it was never touched.

I put on my shoes and brace myself to go home. When I open my front door, my eyes go straight to the mess. I gasp. The shelf is hanging back on the wall. As I walk further in, I see my grandparent’s collection resting on a towel on the dinner table.By looking at them now, you’d never know they were shattered into pieces the night prior. There is a note that says “Don’t touch. Glue is still drying.”Soaking in a bowl with bleach is the piece of coral that was stained in wine.

“Oh my,” I breathe out the words. Grayson did this. Determination to find the man who did this thoughtful thing for me carries me out my front door, and I run.

I probably look insane, still in my clothes from last night and wearing flip flops. The strands of hair trailing behind me in the wind are an entity on their own. I follow the path we used to run together and then I spot him wearing shorts and sneakers with sweat gleaming along his bare back. He doesn’t see me, and I can’t catch my breath enough to call his name, so I push myself further until I can reach him. I all but slam into his sweaty back. He quickly turns around; his alert expression relaxes when he sees that it’s me.

I hold up a finger while I catch my breath. He’s taking in my appearance, and when his eyes fall on my flip flops, the corner of his mouth ticks up in amusement. “Looking for me?”

I throw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his waist and burying my head in his bare chest. He stiffens, then slowly wraps his arms around me. He holds me tight, resting his chin on top of my head. “I had to find you,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

“I have no idea what you’re thanking me for,” he says. “But you’re being unusually nice to me, so I’ll take credit for whatever it is.”

I lift my face so I can see him. “Are you always so insufferable?”

“That depends. Are you always this tangled up with insufferable men?” he rasps. “Because if so, I can be intolerable.”

I peel myself from him and cross my arms. “You are so weird.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “You are so pretty.”

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