Page 40 of Really Truly Yours
Is seven too early for this kind of message? Donny’s frantic alert woke me while it was still dark, after I laid awake much of the night praying my roof didn’t cave in.
That’s another story.
I wait until eight, screw up my courage, and send an SOS to Grayson Smith. For the next hour, I sweat bullets, slowly concluding he is every bit the entitled jerk he showed himself to be on day one. And then, at nine-o-two, my phone dings and I’m a believer in humanity once more.
Grayson: Be there within the hour.
Idiot me, I feel a skipped beat in my chest. Butterflies flit around in my stomach, and I accomplish nothing. The storm knocked out wi-fi or else I’d be taking calls at this hour of the day.
Like I can afford to lose income this week, thanks, Sam.
My barely parted drapes let in a flash from a windshield. The butterflies take off in a flurry like some mean soul swatted at them.
Grayson.
Gray.
Why do I stumble over the name? There’s nothing overly personal about using the shortened version the rest of the world calls him.
The Range Rover glistens its style all over Donny’s driveway, where it stands out like a pedigreed canine at the county’s underfunded animal shelter.
Tucking into the sweater that’s my second skin, I slide my feet into a pair of wooly clogs, summer’s around-the-house flipflops finally retired for the year.
We can hope. I welcome the change of seasons, but as goosebumps popped all over my skin while I gawked at the damage at Donny’s this morning, I realized how ready I was for this perpetual internal chill to go away. The doctor says it’s normal after my bout with illness and the weight-loss it generated.
I open the door and watch the car’s driver exit the vehicle. Grayson is so…
So.
That’s it. Words fail.
I keep my head down around this town, easy to do when there’s not a soul to spark my interest. All the younger men who weren’t either meth heads or tobacco-spitting, beer-guzzling bubbas left this place the first chance they got. So, I adjusted my sights. I’d rather do life on my own than stuck to some man I can’t respect, simply because I’m afraid of being alone.
I’m not afraid. I’ve been alone as long as I can remember.
I am also realistic. Handsome, athletic, intelligent, well-heeled men who date actresses do not stick around with women like me.
Here I am, chilled to the bone because a front dropped the temperature into the fifties, and Grayson Smith stands there watching me cross the street, wearing short sleeves and literally glowing in the sunshine like he can’t soak up enough of the beautiful weather. Golden rays bounce off his tanned arms.
I watch myself approach in the lenses of his aviator sunglasses. There’s evidence of a contemplative smile about his mouth. Yes, things ended kind of funny between us two nights ago. My stomach executes a dip and roll at the memory.
His hands hang at his waist. “Didn’t expect to hear from you again.”
I’m close enough now to see creases fanning out from his glasses, so I think the smile is real. I exhale a held breath.
I am relieved, but I’m still awkward me. “Yes, well, another family matter popped up.”
His head sags. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” See what happens when I try to be clever? Social?
“It’s okay.” Expelling his breath, he pivots back to Donny’s place, lifting and then slapping back down the cap on his head, this one with a logo I don’t recognize. “That does not look good.”
The caramel waves tufting around the headgear look great to me.
Focus, Sydnee. “It looks worse from the side.”
He grunts. “All that AC, going to waste.”