Page 33 of Could Have Been Us
“You? You never meet anyone at a bar and then get drunk like that.”
I lay my head down on my arms to stop the pounding. “Clearly, I was a mess.”
“Was it Misty?” he asks.
If Grayson knew Misty, he wouldn’t be asking that. A long time ago, I must’ve said something about her, and he’s clung to it. In order to make it be plausible, I’ve run with it. Lies upon lies stack around me regarding this. In so many ways, Misty has become Stella. When I was sad and alone, he assumed it was because of Misty, which in reality, was his sister.
Some days, I wish I could just tell him.
Everything.
It would be so much easier, but the deal we made with Stella’s father is that no one knows. We keep the secret or he’ll ruin me. And he could—easily.
My prospects would shrivel up. My friends, especially the Parkersons, would disappear and that would ruin me.
“No, it’s not Misty. She’s not . . . well, it’s nothing about her.”
“You said as much last night.”
I glare at him. “Have you always been this annoying?”
“Pretty much.”
“I must’ve blocked this part of your personality out.”
He grins. “You’re an asshole when you’re hungover.”
“You’re an asshole when I’m hungover.”
“At least we’re consistent.”
I flip him off. “I’m going home.”
Amelia comes running into the kitchen. “Uncle Jack, will you play dolls with me? Jessica showed me a new way to make their hair feel soft. We didn’t brush it right the last time.”
I look to her father for help, but he has that stupid fucking grin as he drinks his coffee.
She tilts her head, batting those long lashes. “Please, Uncle Jack? I love yousomuch.”
“Women learn this really young,” I note aloud.
“Learn what?”
I lift her up, eliciting a squeal of delight. “How to get men to do what they want.”
She giggles and squirms in my arms, and then I spend the next hour playing dolls because at least I can make one woman happy.
Chapter 10
Stella
The last two and a half weeks have been interesting. Since that kiss, I’ve been a mess. I can still feel his lips on mine as though it just happened. The taste of him lingers on my tongue, and the smell of his cologne seems to be embedded in my nose. I hate him and love him all at the same time.
But I am done being a mess, damn it. I have other things to worry about.
Two days ago, I got a call from Mickey, saying that Samuel came in this week. He said it wasn’t bad, but he could tell there was a chance it was going that way. He knows the signs, sees guys who come in, thinking they have it under control, only to realize they don’t. It’s a vicious cycle, and Samuel is stuck in it. It also doesn’t help that Samuel isn’t returning my calls—or his brother’s.
Until he does, there isn’t a whole lot that his brother or I can do.
