Page 34 of Play Me
“Oh, I wasn’t talking to you,” I say flippantly. “I was just admiring your board.”
He lifts a brow as if this surprises him. “Do you play?”
I place the board gently on the sofa.
“I love chess,” I say, grabbing another box and peering inside. “But I play mostly in my driveway.”
“In your driveway?”
“Some people sit in the driveway and listen to music,” I say, moving a few towels out of my view. “I sit in mine and play chess.”
“Why don’t you just play it in the house like everyone else on earth?”
It’s all kitchen stuff.“Because the habit started when I was avoiding going in the house.” I lift the hefty package, swallowing my groan, and carry it to the kitchen.
“Do you need my help?” he asks, setting his marker down.
“Nope.”
“Your face is turning red.”
I grimace, placing the load on the counter. “Kind of you to notice.”
He dips his chin and picks the marker back up. I think he mutters something under his breath, and it’s probably for the best that I can’t hear it.
I busy myself by finding a spot for his four seasonings, a trivet, and six kitchen towels that should be laundered before they’re used. A cutting board, I think, made of marble, weighs nearly as much as I do.Odd thing for him to have, but whatever.He has a can opener, two knives, and one measuring cup, and I leave them on the counter. Then I find another box of kitchen supplies and haul them into the room, too. It’s such a nice distraction from the situation with Trace.
This is not as bad as I imagined.Twenty minutes have passed, and not only have I made progress, but Gray and Ihaven’t killed each other. It’s a small victory I’m too happy to take. I appreciate the opportunity to create order somewhere since I can’t seem to do it in my own life. This also feeds a morbid curiosity about how he lives. It’s like running a background report on him without visiting a sketchy website for the information and risking getting a virus.And seeing photos I can’t unsee …
I find a few canned goods, but there’s no pantry in the kitchen. The logical place to put them is on the top shelf above the spices and protein powders, but I can’t quite reach. So I line up the cans so they’ll be easily accessible and then hop onto the counter.
“What are you doing?” Gray asks as if it’s killing him to watch me.
My knees dig into the countertops, and I balance myself. “What’s it look like I’m doing?”
“Looks like you’re trying to break an arm.”
“Don’t worry.” I grimace, trying to move around in the narrow space. “If that happens, I’ll drive myself to the hospital.”
He groans, huffing behind me. “Why don’t you just ask for help?”
“Because I don’t need it.” I place the cans perfectly equidistant from each other in the middle of the shelf. “You think I’m joking. I broke my arm in the third grade by jumping out of a swing on the playground. My dad was half in a bottle of vodka when I got home from school.” I add a final can of green beans to the lineup. “I couldn’t take the pain by dinner, so I walked to the hospital.”
I pause to appreciate the perfection of the cabinet before hopping off the counter with a little more coordination than I knew I had in me.Score!Gray’s eyes follow me to the living room, and they’re hot on my back as I open another box.
My body temperature rises as I play my broken arm story back through my mind and wish I hadn’t shared that with him. He doesn’t need to know anything about me, and God knows he doesn’t deserve to have that kind of access to my life. Men like him are gatherers and hunters. They gather information, then hunt you down with it.
I glance inside the next box and shove it away. I don’t want to ask him for help, but there’s no way around this one. “You’re going to have to deal with this one. It goes to the kitchen.”
“Too heavy for you?”
I look up and sigh. “No, it’s too peanutty for me. I’d rather not go into anaphylaxis here and have to call the paramedics while gasping for air.” I pause. “Not that I couldn’t do it.”
“Of course you could,” he deadpans, hopping off the chair. This time, I don’t think fast enough to keep myself from getting an eyeful.
Ho-ly shit.
Gray’s body wasn’t built.It was crafted.Forged.His chest is barreled, and his abdomen is stonelike. His legs are just short of tree trunks—thick thighs and strong calves. Scars and bruises accent his skin as much as the dark ink that embraces his left upper leg.
