Page 72 of Really Truly Yours
My phone vibrates in my purse, and here’s my excuse to separate as I should have from the start. I find it and answer. Barely hide a sigh. Sam cancels my afternoon hours, something about his office being a disaster. Nothing new there.
Losing the measly forty bucks I would have earned today shouldn’t make my stomach gnaw on itself.
I end the call and keep my hand in the center of my lap. I can’t afford to let Grayson get ideas about me. Or anything with me. I’m not his type.
“Everything okay?”
“That was my brother. He told me not to come in today.”
“In?”
I explain about Sam’s garage and my part-time arrangement working for him.
Grayson flips the turn signal as we approach my street. “Do you have to work your other job today?”
“I do. I start at ten.”
After this morning, my little house looks like a gloomy street urchin in wilting clothes after being caught in the rain. I unbuckle before the car is fully stopped. “Oh, when I got Donny’s mail yesterday, there were a couple things I think he might need to see. I’ll run and get them.”
Grayson is on my heels as I start up the uneven sidewalk. I unlock the door and press it open. “I’ll be right back.”
He’s been in my house before, so it isn’t that I’m embarrassed about him seeing where I live. He makes my safe space feel cramped, like the narrow little rooms shrunk after being run through the dryer.
The pile of mail sits at the end of the bar. Rifling through it, I look up.
Wouldn’t you know. Grayson, stubborn man, is right where I strongly implied he shouldn’t come—and closing the door behind him.
Grayson
I know when I’m not wanted, and I usually play along.
And then there are those occasions when my stubborn side acts up and overrides the better-behaved part of my nature.
Sounds creepy, but I don’t mean it that way. There’s this forcefield around Sydnee that I’m trying to get a handle on. She’s pretty, yes, but so are lots of women, women who go to extreme lengths to get my attention. Sydnee essentially carries a giant stop sign around with her. Wears it like a badge at a convention so everyone can know at a glance not to get too close.
What about that sucks me in?
Perhaps it’s the all-natural look she wears so well. The freeform waves framing her face, creamy skin. No cakey makeup or hair abused with stinky products. And her figure? Women I know pay good money for what she’s got naturally.
It’s beyond looks, though. I need to figure this out.
What makes Sydnee Carson tick? I close the door and wander the confined space in search of clues.
The novels that line the bookshelf housing the textbooks we discussed the last time I intruded—I mean, visited—make me pause. I run my finger along a colorful spine. Romance? Nothing racy, if the cover is any indication. In fact, I recognize the logo of a faith-based publisher.
Good to know.
My eyes snag on a stack of interior design magazines tucked in a corner between the wall and sofa. My mom and my sister are always sharing ideas from those things, and their homes could grace the pages. This place…
My heart takes a dip.
Across the room, Sydnee makes jerky movements, mumbling about being certain she put it righthere. I’m in no rush. The more I look around, the clearer the picture becomes.
Important why?
To be determined.
I catch a glare, so I move along and watch her instead while I lean on the wall at the end of the hallway, a hallway I can see doesn’t lead many places. Two bedrooms and a bathroom? I reach my hand up. Is this ceiling even eight-foot?