Page 20 of Really Truly Yours
Indeed, the name is unfortunate. “There are a few tables in the deli section at the grocery store.” Cheap fried chicken and sides that have probably been under the heat lamp for hours.
“Dairy Barn it is.” He glances. “If that’s okay with you?”
Okay? I only want this weird afternoon to be over because—
Becauuuse I have something more interesting to do?
“It’s fine.” I’m not hungry, and my budget is a strict taskmaster. I point the way, and once again, upon arrival, he waits for me and holds the door.
I’ve encouraged Sam on this and related points, and he’s fairly mannerly on the rare occasions I happen to see him with one of his girlfriends. Most of his buddies don’t even rank on the gentleman scale.
Grayson, towering as he does, folds his muscled arms over his wide chest and studies the overhead menu. He huffs out a resigned sigh and looks over. “You know what you want?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not eating?”
“No.”
Surrounded by tawny waves, his forehead pinches. “I’m buying.”
Because I can’t? “I’m not hungry.”
His acute study makes me wriggly beneath it. “A drink, at least?”
“No.”
“Sydnee.”
A peculiar shiver ghosts through me. It’s the first time he’s said my name today and it sounds odd and…exciting…on his tongue.
I roll my eyes at my own dumb self. Exciting? Who am I? The only excitement I know is when my neighbor’s obnoxious, jacked up truck backfires on the street at midnight, or when some teenage driver plows into the shanty meth-lab house two blocks down. That actually happened, and the city was out the next morning condemning and bulldozing the shack all in one fell swoop.
“Fine. I’ll have lemonade.”
But I did not mean for him to buy it, yet he tacks my drink onto his order and whips out the platinum again. I stifle another sigh. Arguing over something so miniscule in his world would make me look as pathetic as I feel.
That is how I feel in the presence of this extremely handsome, super-athletic, and I’m sure, crazy well-off, superstar.
Definitely crazy well-off. Pride beamed from Donny when he showed me an article about the contract Grayson signed.
“Tell me more about Donny,” Grayson asks once we’re seated in a red booth next to a cracked plate of glass he’s staring through.
“I don’t know much.”
Tearing his gaze from the cars passing on the street, he hikes up one side of his stubbled face. “Sure you do.”
Alright, he’s caught me. “You know, I feel like the two of you should have this conversation. I will say that Donny’s been kind to me and helpful when I needed it.” I curl my fingers around the cool cup, my whole self both warm and cold at the same time. I was like this a lot when I was sick. I don’t know why the problem is rearing its head today.
Grayson’s big hand taps the bright red piece of plastic with the imprint of his order number against the tabletop. “Has he been able to receive treatment for the cancer?”
My hands unknot. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“He didn’t have insurance at first. It took a while to finally get something, and then his treatments were started.”
His gaze grows distant. “I doubt the delay helped his prognosis.”