Page 44 of Her Pretty Words

“Come on, I’ll walk you home.” I stand, holding my hand out to help her up.

She interlaces our fingers, and it makes my blood heat. Once we’re in her house, I ignore the sight of her new treadmill and ask which room is hers, and then walk her there. I take in the small space. She has an accent wall covered with orange wallpaper and her bedspread is sky blue. Everything about the way she decorated is so true to herself.

She pulls off her pants as if I’m not standing here. I look away until she’s beneath the covers. “I’ll be right back,” I say, then dig through the kitchen cabinets until I find what I’m looking for. She’s already snoring when I return only a minute later. I put two Advil on her bedside table with a full glass of water. I shouldn’t, but I press my lips against her temple before I leave.

Once I’m in my own bed, I glance through my window facing her house. My chest aches in a familiar way.

Chapter 16

Macy

Itake the two pills and chug the glass of water sitting on my bedside table. My head is pounding, and I want to lift the covers over my face and never leave. I push away the images of Walter possibly in bed with other women when we were still together. Bile rises to my throat, but it’s in this very moment that I appreciate the seven-month dry spell we had. At least I don’t need to worry that he gave me an STD.

Dread tugs at me. Our house is in both of our names, and I’m certainly not living with him when I go back to Idaho. I’m packing up and leaving. Good riddance.

I hesitantly climb out of bed, my head throbbing with every step. I wince. I can’t edit my manuscript in this state, so I give myself the day to rot on my couch and watch dating shows.

By the time the sun is hugging the horizon, someone knocks on the door. I groan and pull the hand-knit blanket off my body. I’m wearing a huge T-shirt, cotton shorts, and fuzzy socks. My hair is surely in disarray, and I’m certain the dark circles beneath my eyes are no better than when I glanced in the mirror this morning.

I open the door to find Grayson grinning down at me, wearing his typical dark colors and a hat. I remember being with him last night, but I can’t recall anything that happened.

“Yes?” I bite.

“May I come in?” he asks in a jaunty voice.

“Why?”

“Because we’re friends, and friends usually invite the other in.”

“We are?” I tilt my head, studying him.

He touches his chest. “I’m wounded.” He crosses his arms, then leans against the door frame. He’s the image of cool indifference. “Maybe ‘friend’ is too innocent of a word for us. We can come up with a better one over dinner, which I’m cooking for you, by the way.”

I glance at the paper grocery bag resting beside his feet. My stomach growls in a not so nice way. I haven’t had a single bite to eat today. “Okay...”

“Thank you, Grayson. You are the most thoughtful man I’ve ever met. And handsome, might I add,” he says in a high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like mine. His scent wafts around me as he passes by. Heat curls up my spine.

“I would never say such a thing.”

“No, but you certainly think it.” He winks.

I decide to retire from the couch and sit on one of the chairs at the dinner table. I point it so it faces Grayson in the kitchen, who pulls ingredients from the bag and opens drawers and cabinets until he has everything he needs to cook. He finds a floral apron hanging in the pantry and holds it up. “What’s this frilly little thing?”

“My grandma got it for me as a teenager. We baked a lot.” I smile at the memory of her with flour dusted on her clothes. I always managed to get the powder in my hair.

The pastel colors contrast his dark gray shirt and black joggers. He grins at me and ties it around his neck and back. “How do I look?” He curtsies.

I chortle, hardly able to contain myself at the sight before me. I quickly pull out my phone and snap a picture. Between his towering height and the apron being made for my teenage body, it stops at the top of his thighs.

His expression softens into something genuine as I wipe the corners of my eyes, a smile still plastered to my face.

“I like making you laugh,” he says.

“You make me scowl more than laugh.”

“I might like that better.”

“What are you making?” I gesture toward the pan he has out.

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