Page 58 of The Bloodfeather Promise
Chapter Sixteen
Emerson
The guest room Greyson shows me is at the far end of the stairs on the second floor. The hallway is actually a balcony of sorts, partially overlooking the huge family room. Shaped like a horseshoe, the upstairs is decorated in the same style as the rest of the house. All creamy colors and spots of watery blue. We pass several doors before reaching one Greyson swings open.
My room overlooks the beach, with huge windows that must offer a fantastic view in the daylight. At night, it is a wall of seamless black, unless I look down at the terrace where the pool lights shimmer in shades of color. A king-sized antique, white iron bed is covered with a white down comforter. It looks so soft and inviting. The entire room, with its color scheme of white, grey, and pale aqua, envelopes me.
“No one has ever stayed in this room. The sheets on the bed are brand new.” It’s his subtle way of saying Holly the designer never slept in here. I don’t feel comforted, though. Why would she sleep anywhere other than where he sleeps?
“Wait here, I’ll grab you something you can sleep in.” Before Greyson darts out the door, pool towel still wrapped about his hips, hair sexily damp and tousled, he waves a hand toward the bathroom at the opposite end of the bedroom. “There are new toothbrushes in one of the drawers and everything else you might need.”
While he’s gone, I check out the amenities, shaking my head in disbelief. The bathroom is stocked like a luxury boutique hotel room. High-end towels, soap, shampoo. Everything. It’s all brand new. Like the bedroom, with a bed no one has ever slept in, the bathroom has never been used.
It’s not right. This house, this huge, beautiful house should be filled with family and friends. Laughter and love. Dinners and parties. Good-natured arguments and lots of music.
Instead, it’s pristine and quiet, and Greyson Finch, lost and bitter, silently hurting, wanders about the huge, empty spaces of it all alone. And I am miserable thinking about it.
With my towel still tucked over my breasts, I go ahead and brush my teeth. I am glad I decided on staying the night. Not only have I had too much wine to safely drive myself home, but I suddenly don’t want Greyson here by himself. Not after he opened himself up to me, not with old pain resurfacing and unresolved conflicts lingering.
Should I just go ahead and tell him I’d rather sleep in his bed tonight? Or should I stay where he put me? He thinks this is the decent thing to do, but I’d rather be where he is. How do I tell him?
When Greyson returns, I’m standing at the windows, gazing down at the terrace. The palm trees sway gently in the sea breeze, their fronds lit up by landscape lighting.
“Here you go. Sorry, it’s not more your style.” He’s carrying a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms, a Rolling Stones t-shirt, my purse, and a couple of bottles of water. He has changed into a pair of sleep shorts and nothing else. Of course, my eyes immediately go to his chest because I can’t help it.
He grins sheepishly at me and lays the items on the edge of the bed. The clothes I arrived in are folded neatly. I place them in a curvy, aqua-hued club chair.
“Well, I guess that’s everything. If you need me, I’m just one floor up. It’s the only bedroom on that floor, so don’t worry about getting lost. If you decide you want something else to drink, or if you get hungry, help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Hell, I want you to treat this house as if you own it. Don’t be shy.”
My courage fails me. I don’t say anything about sharing his bed. “Thank you.”
Greyson clears his throat as if he wants to say something more. He stares at me for a moment then blurts it out.
“I’d like you to spend the day with me tomorrow, Emerson, if you don’t have any other plans. We could run to your house after breakfast. Let you grab a bathing suit and some more clothes, and we could just hang by the pool for a while.” He rakes a hand through his mop of dark hair, causing the strands to tumble over his forehead. “I’ve got some recording to do in the afternoon, supposed to skype with Dylan about it. I’d love if you were here for that. You might find it interesting.”
I nod. “I’d like that… as long as I won’t be in the way.”
“You won’t be. Besides, I could use your opinion on the new songs. I’m mostly done with them, just need to tweak them. That’s why Dylan and I are skyping. He’s in Nashville, and the other guys are up in Atlanta, waiting for us to do our part so we can all start laying tracks.”
“Okay,” My heart swells with the knowledge he wants my opinion. He wantsmeto hear his music. His words. I think I might melt right there on the spot.
“Well, I suppose I’ll say goodnight then.” He nervously rubs his hands down the front of his shorts, clenching them into fists before giving me that trademark smirk. “Sleep tight.”
“Goodnight, Greyson.” He’s already closing the door behind him, but I hear his chuckle when I add, “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
* * *
I can’t sleep.
The mattress is comfortable, a veritable cloud of softness, but I toss and turn with restless energy. I fling the comforter off me, breathing deep to settle myself. After lying still for a few moments, I roll from the bed and go to the window.
According to the antique alarm clock on the side table, only a couple of hours have elapsed since I went to bed. All I can think of is Greyson. I feel like my body has been invaded by fever, my skin too hot, too sensitive for my borrowed clothes.
The t-shirt is large, enough so it flutters a little past the tops of my thighs. It’s clean, but somehow it smells like him. That spicy, sharp scent of cologne, ofGreyson, clings to the fabric and now to me. The pajama bottoms, black, of course, hang off my hips even with the drawstring pulled as tightly as it will go. I hitch them up several times. Then decide they are irritating me to the point I’d rather be without them, even though I’ve no underwear on. Those are currently hanging over the glass wall of the shower, along with my bra, drying in the breeze created from the air conditioner.
I strip the bottoms off. Now, I’m completely bare beneath Greyson’s t-shirt.
I don’t feel any better.
