Page 46 of Her Pretty Words

“No,” he says matter of factly. “They thought they were participating in a fun island tradition, and I had a delicious lunch.” He turns and adds ham, cheese, and some vegetables to the omelet.

My turn. “I dreamed of how I would get engaged since I was a little girl. It was supposed to be something special that I spent my life anticipating. Well, Walter put a jewelry box on the dashboard of his car while we were sitting at a gas station parking lot. He didn’t even open the box or put the ring on me. I had to do it myself. So, that night, I made him a milkshake with expired oat milk and he spent the night vomiting.”

Graysons jaw is unhinged, and then he tilts his head back and laughs loudly. The frequency of it touches my entire body. “How did you want to get engaged?” He plates the first omelet, then does the same thing to prepare the other.

My heart aches at the shattered dream. “Fireworks always felt magical to me. I wanted to be cuddled up on the beach watching them light up the sky on the Fourth of July or New Year’s Eve.” Grayson’s eyes never leave mine. “Right when the finale would start, the man of my dreams would present me with a ring and whisper his proposal in my ear.” I look out the window, my eyes sting. “I never wanted a huge grand gesture, just something intimate. Something that showed he knew me.”

“That sounds perfect,” he says kindly. “Don’t lose hope on that dream.”

Our gazes catch and twirl between us like a dance. He’s the first to break it.

He balances two dishes in his hands. His biceps flex and I take notice of the veins in his arms. Once he sets mine on the table before me, my mouth fills with water. Steam is rolling off the top. “If you’re as good at making omelets as you are at driving me insane, then this seems pretty promising.”

He gives me a sarcastic smile and sits beside me, apron still on. He probably forgot he was wearing it, and I wonder if I could get him to go out in public with it on.

I cut into my eggs, the cheese stretches and pulls until I rip it with my fingers. I take a bite and feel my eyes widen. This is the best omelet I’ve ever had. I feel his stare and shoot him a look.

“Good?” he surmises.

I’d rather not add to his inflated ego. “It’s…decent.”

“Lies.”

I shrug.

“Your eyebrows raise.”

I tilt my head.

“Just noting the tells of when you lie.”

“Okay, weirdo.” I take another bite. So does he. We eat in comfortable silence, like two people who have known each other forever.

Once we are finished, he rests his chin in the palm of his hand and watches me for a moment. “I don’t have your number.”

“Okay...”

He chuckles. “I’d like to have it. Should I ever find myself needing sugar, I could send you a text rather than walk all the way to your front door.”

I roll my eyes and bite back a smile that threatens to overtake my face. I look at him pointedly with my hand out. Once I have his phone, I input my information and he takes it from me quickly, like I might change my mind and erase it.

“I’ll need a contact photo, so I know which Macy Brookes this is.”

“Because you just so happen to know another?” This time I do smile, and so does he.

“Perhaps.” He points his phone at me, and I flip him off right as he snaps the photo. His lips curve as he stares at the picture of me. “Lovely.” He sets down his phone and then claps his hands together. “Pancakes?”

I stand and take our empty plates to the sink, feeling his gaze on my back as I peek inside the bag he brought. “No chocolate chips?” I turn to him with a frown.

He shakes his head.

I trace his masculine frame. His long legs sprawl out, and as if he can feel my stare, he crosses them at the ankle. I ask, “Maybe we can go to the store and get some?” I don’t care if we have chocolate chips or not, I just want him to go out wearing my apron.

His eyes narrow on me. “Sure,” he says.

I bite back my smile and pad to my bedroom to change. I comb my hair and tie it into a ponytail, then splash some water on my face. Back in Grayson’s presence, who waits patiently by the front door, like a dog waiting to be walked, I step into a pair of flip flops. I feel him behind me, his woodsy fragrance far too potent. I lean my head back a hair and it meets his hard chest. Warmth touches the shell of my ear as he whispers, “Do you want to walk or drive there?”

It’s a simple sentence, but I’m suddenly breathless. In my silence, he trails the very tips of his fingers down my arm. The hairs on the back of my neck raise and I can hardly remember what he asked. His lips are so close to my neck, sending memories of his mouth someplace far less innocent. He sounds amused when he says, “Did I lose you there, Mace?”

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