Page 9 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“Don’t be silly,” I reply.

We stand there for a moment, the silence thick and awkward. My pulse thuds a little louder than it should. Maybe because he looks unfairly good in a simple T-shirt and jeans, like the woods themselves gave up trying to humble him.

I clear my throat. “I’ll make coffee.”

He grins. “Thank God. If I have to survive this with only your suspicion and my sarcasm, I’m going to need caffeine.”

I glare at him, but it’s half-hearted. “If you’re trying to win me over with charm, you might need a better strategy.”

He leans against the doorway, arms crossed. “No strategy. Just honesty. You’re impossible and I like impossible things.”

Something twists in my chest, annoyance, affection, maybe both. I busy myself with the old percolator, listening to the hiss and bubble of water heating. He moves quietly behind me, rummaging through cabinets for mugs. Our hands brush when we both reach for the same chipped cup.

“Sorry,” I murmur.

He doesn’t pull away. “It’s okay.”

I don’t look up. I can’t. Not when every inch of me feels too aware of him.

We drink our coffee in silence, seated on opposite sides of the couch, legs tucked up, pretending the tension doesn’t exist. Eventually, I get up and start unpacking. The drawers are shallow and old, sticking slightly when I pull them open. I fold my clothes into neat piles, arranging them with more focus than necessary. Grayson drops his bag onto the edge of the bed and begins unloading with less precision, shirts haphazardly stacked, socks tossed like they’ll sort themselves.

"You pack like a man who’s never folded a shirt in his life," I say, glancing over my shoulder.

He shrugs. "I pack like a man who didn’t know we’d be fleeing the city in the middle of the night."

"You had time to pick your favorite T-shirt," I point out, nodding toward the soft, worn black one he's currently wearing.

He smirks. "It was either that or the one with a mustard stain from that hot dog stand you made me try."

I narrow my eyes. "That hot dog was iconic."

He chuckles. "It tried to kill me."

There’s a beat of silence, then we both laugh, really laugh, and something eases between us.

When we finish unpacking, I start putting together a quick dinner. Canned lentil soup warmed on the stove. Half a stale baguette we found wrapped in foil at the bottom of the grocery bag. Coffee reheated in a dented tin pot. Grayson stands behind me, slicing an apple with the kind of casual confidence that annoys me more than it should.

"You know," he says, handing me a slice, "this whole domestic routine we’re doing would be kind of charming if we weren’t doing it to avoid a corporate sabotage scandal."

I take the apple from him, our fingers brushing again. "If we survive this, I’m putting that on our wedding website. ‘Bonded over algorithmic betrayal and limited pantry staples.’"

His smile fades into something softer. “You’re really thinking about the wedding?”

I pause, looking at him. “Aren’t you?”

He nods slowly. “Every day.”

And just like that, the air shifts again. From teasing to something heavier. Something closer. I turn back to the stove, trying to hide the blush crawling up my neck. “We should eat before the oatmeal turns into glue.”

Grayson’s voice is warm behind me. “Lead the way, fiancée.” Outside, the sun finally begins to rise, casting golden light through the windows, warming the hardwood floors.

“I don’t know how long we’ll need to stay here,” I say quietly.

“As long as it takes,” he replies.

Our eyes meet. There’s no fight in either of us now. Just a quiet resignation. We’re stuck here together, indefinitely. After dinner, we wash the dishes in the tiny porcelain sink. It’s barely big enough for two plates and a couple of mugs, but Grayson insists on drying. Mostly so he can critique my rinsing technique.

“You missed a spot,” he says, inspecting a spoon like it’s evidence.

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