Page 6 of Scoring Grey

She looks down and twists her fingers. “That was mainly for sleeping.”

Right, the bed chem comment she made last night. The one I’ve been trying to pretend never happened. I wanted to snap back as soon as the comment left her lips. I wanted to pull her into me and say damn right. She’s the only woman I’ve ever been with who has so wholly consumed me that the world around me slipped away, and all that was left was us and the magic of the moments where she was mine and I was hers. But I didn’t. The last thing I need her to believe is all I want is sex. I refuse to let anything come between us. This is our time, and with Eloise, that means winning her stubborn heart.

“This door is always open for you. I want you here.” This is the exact scene I want to come home to every day for the rest of my life, but I don’t say that. Not yet. “Have you eaten?”

“Not since I woke up. Thanks for the flowers and hangover kit, by the way. Drinking a bottle of wine alone probably wasn’t my best move.” She rolls her lips and runs her hands down the sides of her tight jeans. “However, I don’t remember giving you the code to my place.”

I bite my lip to contain my smile. “You didn’t have to. Jenkins did.”

“Jenkins?” She furrows her brow.

“Yes, the doorman.” I toss my keys on the entry table. “I told him I had a surprise for my girl.”

“Of course you did. I might need to talk with him about security measures at this place if he’s so easily handing out my door code to potential suitors.”

My brows rise. “Potential suitors? Is that what I am to you?”

She slips her hands into her pockets. “I suppose I could have chosen another title.”

I run my thumb over my lip. The hurt I felt earlier slowly creeps back in. “Tell me, Eloise. Those other titles you could have chosen… were any of them your man?”

Her eyelids flutter with unspoken regret before she drops her gaze.

“Why are you even here?” I ask, my tone a little harsher than intended as I can’t temper my emotions.

She doesn’t speak, so I drop my duffel bag, and she startles. I grind my teeth. She’s not the woman I remember. That woman was confident and sure; right now, I don’t know who she is. I can’t get a read on her. Part of me wants to tell her to leave, but I don’t want to give her words I’ll regret, so instead, I head toward my room. After practice, I opted not to shower with the team. I was too anxious to stay any longer than necessary.

I’ve just reached the edge of the living area when she says, “Maybe I didn’t say it or even think it, but I wouldn’t be here if that title wasn’t the one I want.”

I pause to see if she’ll say more while hating how easily her words dictate my mood. All it took was her saying she wanted me to make my heart beat out of rhythm.

“I’m scared, Callum.”

Fuck. I hate that, but I don’t think she’s scared of me. I’ve never given her a reason to be. If anything, her fear is rooted in the same place as mine. It’s the fear that if we don’t figure this out now, maybe we never will. The thought of life without her is damn near crippling. She’s been the only girl I ever wanted for longer than she knows. I don’t want a future that doesn’t include her.

“I’m going to shower and change,” I throw over my shoulder, knowing I can’t bear to see any ounce of hurt that I may have caused etched on her pretty face. “If you’re still up for it, I’d like to take you somewhere.”

I hear her pull in a shaky breath. “I’d like that.”

I take one step and grip the wall. I wasn’t going to say it. One of us should embody strength and hope for our future, but being vulnerable feels right, so I say, “And, blondie, you scare the hell out of me. You always have.”

I don’t wait for a reply. I don’t need one. I only needed her to hear my truth.

“Hey.” Eloise’s hand tightens around my bicep as we walk down the street, and I swear I fall a little harder. “Can we stop in here really quick?”

“I’ll follow you anywhere, blondie.”

She gives me a shy smile but pulls my arm all the same, and I follow her inside Brushstroke. Releasing my arm, she rubs her hands together, blowing on her fingers to warm them up.

“That’s not how you do it,” I say, taking her hand. “Your hand belongs in mine. I promise I’ll keep it warm.”

She pinches her bright red lips together but doesn’t pull away. Instead, she laces her fingers through mine and pulls me through the store. Her free hand runs over the soft tips of a few brushes.

“When was the last time you painted something?”

“It’s been a while,” she admits with a sigh as she continues her perusal.

“Why is that? The way I remember it, painting brought you joy.”

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