Page 53 of The Bloodfeather Promise
Chapter Fourteen
Emerson
Of all the dumb things I’ve ever done, this probably tops them all. Well, perhaps it takes second place. The first being the night I enjoyed a one-night stand with this man.
Handing me a clean wine glass and another bottle of Malbec, Greyson sends me out to the pool ahead of him, saying he’s grabbing a few things first. Obediently, I do as he says, waiting on a lounge chair half way between the jacuzzi and the edge of the leveled terrace.
The design of the pool, along with the huge arbor at one end, the various potted plants and palm trees creates a private oasis. If you are on the beach, looking up at the house, you’d not be able to see a thing, other than the marble columns at the far end of the terrace. The hot tub is a huge affair, sunk into the pool deck and definitely private. Even if you are in the living room, looking out, you would not be able to see it.
I slide off my heeled sandals and push them off to the side, glancing around as I do. Everything about this space, and the entire house itself, screams of wealth. I wonder if Greyson meant it when he said he would take me to France. Surely, that was meant tongue-in-cheek. Wasn’t it?
The pool lights create a lovely aura over the terrace. They came on automatically while we watched the sunset, but it takes the darkness of the evening before the beauty can be fully appreciated. Greyson mentioned the hot tub needed to be turned on and allowed to warm up, the control panel for that being inside the house. From my seat on the lounge chair, I see him moving around the living room. I realize he’s selecting more music on his playlist. It makes me smile because everything this man does seems to revolve around a song. As if he’s attempting to set his life to music and must construct the perfect soundtrack.
After our date on The Green where we watched the play, Devon and Noah tracked me down at my house. From a distance, they’d seen Greyson and me on the lawn. Devon, of course, wanted details on whether or not I’d slept with him yet, while Noah warned me again that it was a dangerous thing I was doing.
“Dude’s gonna be pissed when he finds out you lied to him.”
“I haven’t lied!” I protested. “I’ve just neglected to tell him everything. And besides, I’m the one who has a right to be angry. You do remember he—”
“I remember what he did.” Noah cut me off. “Have you ever thought maybe you misinterpreted what he said? Maybe what he said was directed to the person on the other end of the phone…”
I grit my teeth. “He was looking straight at me. You don’t know what that was like, Noah. You weren’t there.”
Noah doesn’t seem so convinced anymore that Greyson is a jerk. Guess he’s falling under that man’s spell too. His eyes narrow. “I’m a guy. I know how guys are. If things were that hot between you two, if he was as determined to sleep with you as you say, then he wouldn’t boot you out so quick. He’s gonna want your number, know how to get in touch with you so you could hook up again.”
It’s hard to believe my best friend is defending the man who broke my heart. “He slept with me so that his friend couldn’t.”
“It was so romantic…y’all sitting on that blanket, with your wine glasses and the fireflies flitting all about. Like a scene from a movie,” Devon sighs dreamily, ignoring the argument Noah and I are having. “You two make such a gorgeous couple, you know that? You really do. And Greyson is so sweet. Maybe you should think about pursuing him for real, E.J. I just can’t believe you haven’t slept with him yet. Have you at least kissed?”
It wasn’t easy fielding those questions. And neither was it easy putting aside the kernel of doubt Noah places in my brain as it relates to that awful morning. Instead, I focused on his dire prediction of what will happen if Greyson finds out everything we’ve already done.
He will be furious. He may decide he never wishes to see me again after such duplicity.
I can’t think about all that right now, though. There are other, more important matters I must concentrate on. Like the stupidity of agreeing to get in a swimming pool with Greyson while I’m in my underwear.
God, shouldn’t I be removing my clothing? I probably should. Then I decide against it. I’ll wait until he comes out and take my cue from him. Maybe he was just kidding. Maybe he doesn’t really think I’ll take my clothes off.
Although I said no more wine, I go ahead and pour myself half a glass. Greyson is very persuasive; I know he can talk a girl into just about anything. He talked me into spending the night as his guest with little effort. I’ll be in one of the eight spare bedrooms, while just one floor above me, he’ll be asleep in his own room. I wonder if he will be thinking of me during the night. Wishing I was in bed beside him.
I can’t help but stare at Greyson when he comes back outside, carrying a tumbler of what looks like whiskey. He grabs four terrycloth beach towels from the pool house under an arbor taking up one corner of the terrace and sets it all down on the coping that surrounds the built-in hot-tub. The violet hue of the pool’s lighting system casts a rosy glow over his body. He’s changed into a pair of black boardshorts, small skull and crossbones decorating one of the hems. Without a shirt on, and possessing an intimate, unshakeable memory of his body from our night together in Los Angeles, I see the difference between then and now.
The pale, much thinner, alcohol and cocaine-addicted Greyson has been replaced with this improved, mouth-watering version. He’s toned and more muscular, with shoulders that seem broader, arms that bulge slightly in all the right places, and well-defined legs. I swallow hard because the abs of his stomach are literally spellbinding, thick slabs that gleam in the shimmering light. And, Jesus, those boardshorts hanging so low on his hips were made to draw attention to the V-shaped muscles pointing straight to his groin like arrows. I don’t know what those muscles are called, have no idea if they even have a name, but I do know those things make girls stupid and I’m not immune to their power.
“Just a few more minutes on the jacuzzi and it’ll be warm enough that we can hop in.” He glances at me, frowning slightly. “You aren’t undressed yet.”
I push one of my sandals across the marble tiles with a bare toe. “No.”
He pins me with those hazel eyes of his until I meet his gaze. “Changed your mind? All right. Drag a chair over. You can sit and talk to me while I’m in the hot tub.”
Greyson is completely unconcerned that I’m not following through with the plan of swimming in my bra and panties.
I wonder if he thinks I’m bipolar or something since I’ve waffled between wanting to be with him any way he’ll have me, and pushing him away when he gets too close. Earlier, in the studio, I froze when he said he wanted me naked and exposed on his bed, on those black, silk sheets, everything bare for his eyes to see. Hearing it said aloud reminded me how much I enjoyed it the first time, how gentle and somehow, at the same time, how rough he’d been when taking me. Would he make love the same way now? Or would his body move over mine differently without drugs and alcohol fueling his actions? I wouldn’t know unless I allow myself that intimacy with him once more.
That wasn’t the only thing sending me into a panic. Without clothing, my little feather tattoo would be visible. Validation of the nickname he unwittingly bestowed on me. He would certainly ask the meaning behind it, and what would I say to that?
He’s still standing beside the jacuzzi, bending to pick up the tumbler, sipping from it before setting it back down again. Lifting his arms, he laces his hands behind his head and just stares at me as if deciding what he will say.
The motion provides the perfect showcase for Greyson’s own tattoo. I can’t look away from it. My fingers itch because I want to smooth my hands across that broad expanse of his chest and touch my lips against his warm skin. I’m fascinated by the inky darkness of the tattoo. Wondering if the pressure of my tongue tracing the delicate lines will satisfy me. I want to know if by doing this, I will always remember how the swirls of ink marked him. The direction the lines tracked, how it left open the question of the words that feather quill might carve into his skin.
