I don’t know what to do with this feeling. It’s equal parts longing—yes, fucking longing—and rage. I want to hear those words again. It’s a kick in the pants to realize that I want to be loved, like I’m worth something to someone. Not for what I can do for them, but just for me. And rage, because how dare Ivy say those words to me? Three little words, and she’s made me all sorts of needy. My anger is plain ridiculous and irrational. But there you go. I’m now Irrational Gray. Confused and Grumpy Gray. Horny as All Fuck Gray. Nice to meet you.

Eventually I lose myself to the day, working out, practice, lunch, more working out, until my body is battered and sore and just maybe I will get so tired that I can simply crash without thought.

But all routes lead to Ivy, and no matter how hard I try, I find myself running that pattern over again, heading to her house as if it’s the end zone.

Fifteen

Ivy

Fi texts to say she’s staying over at her boyfriend’s house. When I get home in the evening, my little house is quiet and dark. Empty. During high school, I’d loved having the house to myself, pretending that I was on my own, living life on my terms. I’d light a few candles, get in my jammies, and curl up with a book, dreading the moment when someone else would come home and fill the house with noise.

Now? I’m moving around the living room, clicking on lights. My chest feels hollow, and I don’t like the sensation. Or the fact that silence no longer satisfies.

I’m used to Gray’s noise. His constant laughter and the way he fills up the house with his vitality. I’ve never met a person who occupies a space as wholly as Gray does. It has nothing to do with what he says or does, it’s simply his energy, his joy. Everyone instinctively knows he loves life, and they want so soak up that joy.

Me? I want Gray. Here, now, a gorgeous distraction that makes me love life as well. But I can’t call him. He’s been here every night for nearly a week. And I refuse to turn into that needy friend.

A shiver runs over me, and I realize I’m still standing before the open fridge. I wrinkle my nose at my choice of dinner. A slice of old pizza or a sandwich. I have no desire to cook alone anymore.

“Gah.” I grab a Diet Coke and shut the door with a sigh. The phone ringing makes me jump in the silence. But I grin hard enough to make my cheeks ache when I see it’s Gray.

“What up, Killer G?”

His deep voice is a caress against my ear. “Mac, that was literally painful to hear.”

“Fine,” I sigh. “Hello, Mr. Grayson, and how are you on this fine evening?”

“Why, I am very well, Miss Mackenzie,” he drawls. “You decent?”

“Is this a trick question?” I grin into the phone. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m outside. Open the door for me.”

Suppressing a squeal that would make me sound pathetic, I hang up and practically skip across the room. I open the door in time to see Gray walking up the front steps, grocery bags in one hand and his gym bag in the other. And I’m in so much trouble because, damn, he does it for me.

Instantly, my heart kicks against my chest, my breath going light and quick as heat rushes up my thighs. He’s giving me that lopsided grin of his. The one that looks a little bit boyish and a little bit naughty, as if assuring that you’ll have fun while he does dirty things to you.

The old university sweater he’s wearing can’t hide the width of his shoulders or the strength in his arms. Worn jeans hang low on his narrow hips, but stretch tight around his massive thighs and lovingly cup the distinct bulge between his legs. I shouldn’t look there, but it’s impossible to miss; Gray is obviously built on a grand scale all over.

My fist tightens around the doorknob. Because I have to hold myself back. I know how warm he’ll be, how firm that body is, and that he’ll smell like home and sex all rolled into one.

But what hits me the most is the way just seeing him makes me feel as though night has turned to day. Everything around me feels brighter, fresher. Gray is my joy. I know this now.

And maybe I’m his, because his eyes are on me and there’s a restrained happiness in his expression, as though he’s holding back too. Or maybe I’m imagining things I want. I can’t tell anymore; this man had turned my world on its head. I can only watch as he bounds up the stairs in that effortless way of his.

“I thought we’d make steaks.” He holds up the grocery bag by way of greeting.

“Wow, big spender.”

“Okay, don’t judge, but the grocer is a fan and gave me a sweet discount.” He gives me a guilty little grin.

“Playing the football card? I approve, because steaks!” I lean against the door. “You brought your gym bag too.”

Gray’s smile turns sheepish. He’s so close now, the vanilla-citrus scent of his skin wraps around me like a blanket. “I…uh…well you might have a relapse.”

“I might.”

“Don’t worry, Special Sauce.” He gives my forehead a peck. “I’m here to save the day.”

Gray Grayson. My hero.

* * *

Gray

I lean back into the pillows with a sigh of contentment. I’m a man well fed and content. We’d had dinner, the best I’d eaten in ages. I’d made a pan-seared hangar steak with caramelized onion-bacon relish and roasted butternut squash. And now dessert. Dessert being Ivy’s gig.

She’d gone for simple, making super-creamy vanilla shakes. And they’re perfect. How she does this, picking the perfect thing for the perfect moment, is beyond me. Like suggesting that we watch TV in bed.