Page 57 of Theirs to Hunt
“You didn’t crash. He carried you. Princess style.”
The silence between us is comfortable in a way I didn’t expect, and somehow I’m not squirming with self-consciousness.
Grayson finally speaks. “She’s safe. That’s what matters.”
Brooks nods once, glancing at the space between us. “You hungry, Bambi?”
It’s how he says it. Teasing, easy, but somehow deferential. It disarms me.
It reminds me that while this started out like the opening scene of a horror flick, the script’s changed. I’m the final girl in this version, whatever it turns out to be.
“Starving,” I admit. The honesty slips out easier than I expect.
“Come on, then,” Brooks says. “Grayson’s garbage at breakfast unless there’s a combat-trained private chef involved.”
I glance up. Grayson smirks, unapologetic. “He’s not wrong. And yes, the chef is him.”
I slide off his lap. My feet hit the floor, cold and grounding. Brooks holds out a hand.
I take it. He doesn’t let go right away.
Grayson watches us. Quiet. Assessing. But not tense.
There’s a current between them. Something understood but unspoken.
For the first time, I realize they don’t fully know what this is either.
But they’ve agreed to it.
Whatever this becomes.
Chapter forty-eight
Reagan, Saturday 08:30 a.m.
The kitchen is warm in a way I didn’t expect. Sunlight slants through tall windows, gleaming off polished wood and black marble. Large windows overlook the side yard, the cobblestone patio, and an outdoor kitchen before everything unfolds into a quiet, park-like setting.
It smells like coffee and butter and something faintly sweet. Brooks moves comfortably in his space. Sleeves rolled up, bare feet on tile, flipping pancakes with the confidence of someone who doesn’t need to prove anything. He doesn’t ask how I take my coffee. He just makes it. Cream, no sugar. Exactly right.
Grayson leans against the counter, still in yesterday’s slacks and a half-buttoned shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows. His tie is missing. His eyes never leave me. Not in a creepy way. Just watching. Tracking. Like he’s memorizing this version of me too.
There isn’t tension in the air, but it’s full of possibility.
I’m usually self-reliant and grounded, but these two light something up in me. A hope I’ve never let myself want. It makes me feel too much, too soon.
I’m barefoot in Grayson’s shirt, one leg swinging as I perch on a barstool that’s more comfortable than it should be. Brooks slides a plate in front of me. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, fresh strawberries on the side.
“If you don’t like it, you’re wrong,” he says flatly.
Despite myself, I smile. “Cocky much?”
“Confident,” he corrects. “Try the pancakes.”
Grayson smirks into his coffee. “He cooks when he’s trying to impress someone.”
Brooks gives him a look. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to,” Grayson says. “She should know what she’s walking into.”
