Page 88 of Really Truly Yours
Grip snugging, he advances until our lips could meld. Yes.
No!
I jump up and slam through the screened door, my feet echoing on the pier and beam foundation.
At the end of the hall, I cave against the wall, my chest tight, eyelids pressed together. I’m smarter than this. Physical attraction is a trap. Men are a trap.
I can’t let myself tumble in.
Gray Smith may be more than I first thought, but the fact remains. Big-city, rich, handsome, professional ball players do not fall for white-trash nobodies.
The door squeals. Gray closes it softly. No footsteps track me, and the stillness is more than I can take. Like a hand feeling its way in a dark room, my brain searches for right words. “Gray…”
A throat clears. “Go see Donny?”
Donny? I spin, agape at Gray’s neutral smile, at the proffered out that salvages my pride. I swallow. “I—I’d like that. I should change…” My clothes are atrocious and my hair needs a brush.
“You don’t need to change anything, Sydnee.” Hands in his pockets, he slips past me to the front door. “I’ll wait in the car.”
Grayson
I am so tired. The day has been long, and there’s too much life yet in it.
I crack the windows and lean my head against the rest. First Tripp, now Sydnee. I nearly messed things up with her, too.
What things, exactly? She’s just Donny’s helpful neighbor.
She’s also a beautiful woman, and beautiful women make me weak. Last year proved that.
Not that any of those women were remotely like Sydnee.
The lousy morning set me at a low point. That’s all this is, I’m sure of it.
Mostly sure.
Shoot. I’m not fooling anyone, least of all myself. I want more than to kiss her. I want to hold her. I want her to hold me. I’m the kind of guy who keeps on truckin’, no matter what, but the truth is, these last weeks, putting on my everything’s-cool face has been challenging.
Calmed by the sun and its greenhouse effect on my car, I’m succumbing to a tranquil state when the rocking rumble of a vehicle drags me from it. Lolling my head, I see a giant, older, souped up, jacked up pickup in my side mirror. It’s black with chrome accents, things like giant stovepipes poking over the cab, and I’ll bet, if I got a sideview, there’d be some flashy, obnoxious wheels on those massive tires.
I watch a young guy eyeing me, or at least my car, approach. I think it’s mainly his wiry frame that creates an impression of height.
As he nears, I lower my window the rest of the way. “Hello.”
The odor of cigarettes fills my nostrils.
“You’re Gray Smith, aren’t you?”
My fame has spread far and wide. “That’s right.” I extend my hand. The guy, named Sam, according to the stitching on his work shirt, shakes it. There’s grease on every last one of his knuckles. He supplies his last name, confirming that he is in fact Sydnee’s brother.
His bristly cheeks grin. “Cool. So you’re the old man’s kid, huh? I’ll have to get your autograph before you leave town.”
To put it mildly, Sam and his sister don’t have a lot in common. It’s taken me weeks to convince Sydnee to use my shortened name. And autograph? She’d laugh—or burn it—if I gave her such a thing.
Eyeballing my ride on the outside and now scoping out the interior, he plants his palms on the window’s ledge. “Nice wheels.”
“Thanks.”
“Impressive.”