Page 53 of Really Truly Yours
“What are you thinking?”
I knead the napkin in my lap. “Your brother is…” Oh, I should have done the searching for a polite word on my own time, before I broached the subject and could still weasel out.
The sudden twitching of Grayson’s lips doesn’t help my thought process. “Let me guess. Intimidating? Rough? Downright scary?”
I nod one time, slowly.
His smile breaks wide. “According to what I’ve been told, those traits are precisely the reason he was about the best undercover agent the DEA ever had.”
I gasp. “He’s law enforcement?”
“Yep. Spent nearly ten years undercover. Works in an office now, though. He made the switch after he met Avery.”
“Oh, wow. That’s fascinating.” But…
He taps his finger. “What now?”
“I, well, I think it’s great, but it would have made him less than popular in my family.”
Beyond Grayson’s surface chuckle, weightier questions spin.
Brilliant, Sydnee. Most people steer clear of pitching out reminders of things they would prefer others didn’t know anything about.
He taps the base of his glass on the table. “Tell me about this family of yours.”
I can hardly say no when he’s looking at me the way he is. Tender and…caring.
I scuff my palms together under the table. “When I said that, it’s my brother I was talking about. And my dad.” That’s half your family, girl, more if you lump Mom in. I lift my chin. Stuttering and stumbling only make things worse. I learned that from Dad.
Enough! Seriously, has Grayson caught on that I’m half insane, all this conversing with myself?
Suddenly, I’m on my feet. “Excuse me a moment.”
I feel his gaze following my trajectory toward the restrooms. Inside the last stall, I press my hands to my eyes. What is wrong with me?
I use the minute of privacy to will away multiple potential answers, as well as my humiliation.
The warm smile Grayson bestows when I slide into the booth again does things to my heart. Slows it down, speeds it up. Turns it in circles that jumble my brain along with it.
The waitress is on my heels, bringing our food at the exact right moment to assist in putting our earlier conversation in the rearview mirror.
The meal is sooo good. Even a boring old salad tastes special at this place. Grayson plows through his steak and loaded mashed potatoes. Maybe next time I’ll venture deeper into the menu.
Next time? This is a one-time deal, girl.
As I stab a final slice of chicken, I hear, “Mr. Smith?”
A boy of ten or eleven stands by our table, hero worship on his freckled face.
I catch a flash of oh crud in Grayson’s expression before he sits back and smiles a kind smile. “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
The kid, pen and cocktail napkin in hand, shoves the items toward Gray. “Can I have your autograph, sir? You’re my favorite pitcher ever.”
Clicking the ballpoint, Grayson takes the items and lays out the napkin on a clean spot alongside his plate. “Favorite, huh? You play ball?”
The boy nods furiously. “I’m a pitcher, too.”
“Cool. Work hard if you want it. What’s your name?”