Page 16 of Entangled

Chuckling, he brings the rim of his beer to his lips and takes a swig while I watch his throat jump. I’ve always noticed Grayson in a way I don’t notice the boys at school. I don’t know if it’s because he’s always been in my life, more of a parent than my own absent mother. If I hurt myself, it was Grayson who cleaned my wounds and told me everything would be okay. When the kids at school were mean to me, it was Grayson who told me to keep my head high. Maybe that’s why my eyes slide over the broad shoulders beneath his shirt. I quickly avert my gaze when he lowers the bottle and drags his tongue over the droplets on his bottom lip.

He walks up to the couch and lowers himself down, but I stay by the fireplace. I need space to calm my racing heart.

“So,” Grayson says with a smile, “how do you feel about Butter Chicken and rice?”

“Is that what you’re cooking?”

“It is.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off me when I approach him. “It sounds delicious.”

“It is,” he repeats, holding my gaze as I take a seat on the armchair.

“I look forward to trying it.” I don’t know what else to say. The way Grayson is watching me makes me feel flustered.

“Tell me something about you, Willow. What do you want to do in the future?”

“You’re asking deep questions.”

“It’s an important one.” Leaning back, he peels back the corner of the label. “I don’t think I ever asked Chloe. I was always so hell-bent on letting her forge her own path. My father… he was never like that. He was always on my case, trying to steer me in a certain direction. It didn’t go well. I never tried to push Chloe, but now I think I should have asked her…” A muscle jumps in his cheek, and he takes another swig of his beer. “I should have asked her what her dreams were.”

The light in his eyes dims again, so I inhale a shaky breath and reply honestly, “I don’t know what my dreams are.”

The muscle in his jaw ticks again. Leaning forward, he puts the beer on the table. “You have time to find a dream.”

“Maybe.” To lighten the mood, I add, “I want to visit Paris one day.”

He smiles at me, then claps his thighs and stands up. “I know it’s early, but I’ll start on the food. Do you want to watch a movie or something in the meantime?”

“Do you mind if I keep you company?”

“I’ll teach you the recipe if you want.”

I stand up too and follow him into the kitchen. After I finish my glass of lemon water, I rinse it out and put it on the drying rack.

CHAPTER7

GRAYSON

I shouldn’t enjoyher company like this. A young woman like Willow should be out with her friends, enjoying life. Not cooking food with a middle-aged man like me. But for whatever reason, she seems to want to be here. I enjoy the break in the silence. Willow talks a lot about everything and nothing. Sometimes she talks because she wants to fill the silence, and sometimes she talks simply to coax a smile from my lips. She’s like a candle in the darkness. If not for her, I would be wasting away on my couch, staring at the unlit fireplace. At least while Willow is here, I get a short break from wallowing in my misery. I can see why Chloe liked her so much. She’s witty but also sensitive. Young but also wise, thanks to her absent mom, who doesn’t care beyond keeping her clothed and fed.

It’s not enough. Willow craves company. She craves to be seen.

Our fingers brush as we reach for the knife at the same time. I pretend I don’t notice her blushing cheeks. “You can have it. I’ll grab another one.”

Why am I encouraging her like this? I’ve always known she has an innocent crush on me, but I still don’t turn her away. I don’t want to when the alternative is to be alone, letting the pain back in. This is a nice distraction. Maybe that makes me a terrible person, but nothing will ever happen between us. She’s my daughter’s age, not even legal yet.

My mouth moves before my brain has caught up. “Your eighteenth birthday is shortly after Chloe’s, right?”

Why am I asking her this? It doesn’t matter.

“Yeah, but I don’t think I’ll do much this year.”

“You’re weeks away from turning eighteen. Of course, you should celebrate.”

Instead of replying, she starts sautéing the onions and the chicken. My eyes snag on her bare shoulders in her tank top and the curve of her creamy neck when she tucks her hair behind her ear. “You should host a party,” I say to distract myself from my hardening dick. This is bad, so fucking bad.

Those slender shoulders rise and fall noncommittally, and I find myself wondering if she’s a virgin. I squash those thoughts immediately and set the table while she continues cooking.

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