Page 45 of Her Pretty Words

“An omelet, and if you aren’t retching by the end of the meal, I’ll make you pancakes for dessert.”Of course. Because he only knows how to cook breakfast items.

I replay the events of the prior night, but most of it is hazy. I sink into my chair. “I didn’t do anything embarrassing last night, did I?”

He stares at me a beat too long. “Nope.” He turns his back toward me.

I have no choice but to believe him, so I move past it. Grayson cracks eggs into a bowl, some of the slimy mess gets on the countertop. It’s a strange thing to smile at, but this kitchen has been clean and lifeless for years.

The counters were in a constant state of organized clutter growing up, with baked goods bought from the store and random ingredients. The sink was full of dishes since neither of my grandparents believed in using paper plates, and my entire family ate three big meals every day. I always returned home with a few extra pounds at the end of summer.

“Tell me about your family,” I say as he whisks the eggs.

He stills and his shoulders tense. He doesn’t say anything.

“Grayson?”

“I don’t want to talk about them.” His voice is thick.

Fair enough.“Okay. Tell me something else about you.”

He pours the whisked eggs into the pan and then faces me. “My favorite animal is a dog.”

I smile. “How many dogs have you had?”

“None.” He leans against the counter with his legs crossed at the ankles and his hands gripping the edge.

I sit up straighter. “None?”

“Zero,” he annunciates the word, holding up his hand to demonstrate the number. “Now you have to tell me something about you.” He switches my question back onto me.

“I won’t bore you with details you probably don’t care for.”

“Oh, I care a great deal. Go on.”

I roll my eyes before pondering for a moment. “Sometimes when I finish writing and have nothing else to do, I drive to the grocery store and sit in my car.”

“Why?”

“I like to people watch.”

He’s focused intently, like that’s the most interesting thing he’s ever heard.

“It’s your turn again.”

He grins. “You’re quite eager to get to know me, Mace. If I didn’t know any better, I would call this the beginning of a friendship.”

“I don’t truly care to know the boring details about yourself, but your voice is distracting me from the hangover,” I lie.

“So, my voice soothes you?” He grins. “Then I’ll do you favor and keep rambling on about myself.” He waits for me to protest, and smirks when I don’t. “Once, I told a couple of vacationers on the beach that it’s tradition to leave a cheeseburger by the front door of my house. I said it was abandoned and that it would keep a ghost from following them home and haunting them.”

My eyes widen. “Why?”

“Look who’s suddenly interested in my ‘boring details.’”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t have to. You do it for me, and it was because I wanted a cheeseburger.” He shrugs.

“That’s…a little fucked up.”

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