Page 8 of Her Pretty Words
I observe Grayson standing before me. There’s a hint of stubble on his face, like he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. His dark brown hair lays in a way that looks like he just rolled out of bed, but he doesn’t look sloppy. He looks good. It’s infuriating, to be quite honest.
As irritating as he is, he seems trustworthy. At least to accompany me to the bar. Plus, he’s freakishly tall, meaning no one is going to mess with me as long as I’m seen standing near him. The only downside is the ego boost he’d get if I asked.
He leans against the wall, crossing his arms with a hint of a grin playing on his lips. His eyes drop to my throat the second I swallow. My body tenses as he slowly leans into me, gaze never straying from mine.
He carefully brings his hand into the front pocket of my sweatshirt and grabs my key card. He steps out of my proximity and opens the door, holding it for me to enter. There’s a tingle in the air as I pass him, taking my suitcase back as I do so. I set it on one of the beds, eyes glued to the view out the window. The city glitters with a million flecks of light coming from the tall buildings. Cars line the streets and tiny ants of people parade around like it isn’t almost eleven p.m.
“It’s no Idaho, I’m sure,” he says from the door, his voice husky and deep.
I turn around.
“I’ve never seen a city so alive,” he says, voice soft with something akin to awe. “Have you?” He steps into the room. I should tell him to leave, but instead I shake my head.
I haven’t seen even one percent of the world outside of Idaho and a small island in Florida. I haven’t done much of anything, despite the books I write where my characters fall in love somewhere beautiful in my imagination. Everything I’ve never had lives within the pages of a story for people to read.
“Let’s go somewhere.” His lips spread into a wolfish grin. My heart stammers from the sight, which is completely not okay with me.
It’s a tempting idea. “No.”
He shakes his head, like he can see through me. “Get ready. I’ll change in the closet,” he says, removing his backpack andbringing it with him into the surprisingly large space.I guess fancy hotels with waitlists come with walk-in closets. He doesn’t give me room to object.
I unzip my bag and pull an army green dress out of my suitcase. I only packed flip flops, tennis shoes, and a pair of black high-top Converse, no heels to go with it.
I hide away in the bathroom to change and brush my teeth. I comb mascara through my eyelashes and pinch my cheeks to mimic blush.
Grayson is already done changing by the time I come out. He’s wearing dark gray suit pants and a button-down with the cuffs rolled up, showing off his forearms. “The airline still has my checked bag. I put my business clothes in my backpack, so I’d remember to take it to the dry cleaner when I get home.” He shrugs when he sees me eyeing his outfit. I don’t say anything as I bring my hair over my shoulder and work out the tangles with my fingers.
“Do you have a jacket?” he asks, while unzipping his backpack and pulling out a folded blazer that matches his pants.
“No,” I say right as he hands it to me.
“You might get cold.” His eyes rake over my dress. “Wow,” he whispers.
I blink at him. I wore this dress last week to change things up when Walter and I went to the restaurant we eat at every Wednesday night. I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t compliment my appearance, but I was foolishly disappointed.
Instinctively, I reach for my left hand, feeling the need to twist the engagement ring that always digs into my finger, except I only feel my bare skin. I glance down, about to rummage through my bag to find it, but I already know where it is. The counter in the airport bathroom, where I left it to wash my hands. It’s probably stolen by now. I should be more upset than I am, but it feels more like fate is slapping me across the face.
Chapter 3
Grayson
I’m afraid one wrong move will send Macy running to her room and locking me out. She’s so reserved, I find myself grasping onto the smallest details she reveals about herself. I etch each one to memory. I wasn’t surprised by her career choice.
The elevator opens, and by some miracle, she follows me in.
“Do you come to New York a lot?” she asks, looking at the numbers that drop at the top of the elevator.
“This is my first time. My boss sent me for a financial convention, and since I’m the newest and youngest employee, I couldn’t exactly say no. Plus, it’s good experience,” I say. She doesn’t answer, but I keep talking. “He doesn’t like flying.”
“And you likefinance?” she asks, like the idea of anyone enjoying my career is insane.
I walk out, hoping she’ll continue to follow, and when she does, I suppress a smile. “I’m good with numbers, and it pays the bills.”
“I failed algebra twice in high school,” she says.
“Creative people tend to be bad at math,” I say. “I once read that writers and artists use the right side of their brain more than the left.” She doesn’t answer, and I realize what a weirdthing it was to say. I find myself elaborating. “The left side is more analytical, like me. The right is more imaginative, like you.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” she points out.