Page 95 of Really Truly Yours
If I was allowed to. Sometimes, Dad especially, was set on hauling everyone into his personal chaos.
Grayson’s hard jaw glows in the white-blue light of the ultramodern dash of his car. The silent tension sloughing off him permeates the vehicle. General frustration or anger at his brother? Donny, maybe?
Anyone in his path?
I make myself as small as possible. I’ve zero interest in seeing Gray’s dark side.
At the sight of my house, my haven, my chest loosens a notch. I dig my housekey from its designated pocket in my purse and unbuckle.
Gray’s heavy hand lands on my sleeve. “Wait.” He shoves the car into park and throws his side open.
I am not going to be a sitting duck. Been there, done that.
I step onto the weedy gravel, and we meet as I’m flush with the front tire. He scolds with his eyes. “I said wait.”
I lift my chin. “I don’t take orders from you.”
“Orders?” His tone suggests absurdity—mine.
“Yes, orders. I do what I want, Grayson.”
I go to step around him. He blocks my path. “I wanted to get your door.”
It’s near-impossible to read his eyes with only the inadequate light from the single bulb on my front porch. My door? Hah. I probably saw that in a classic movie once.
I move to shove past him, and he allows it. “I can get my own door. Goodnight, Grayson.”
His footsteps pound the ground in my wake. “Hold on a minute. What’s wrong with you, Sydnee?”
A haze fills my vision. I spin. “What’s wrong with me? You nearly strangled that poor steering wheel on the way home and you didn’t say a single word for the entire twenty minutes!”
Making a face, he spreads his hands. “It’s been a rough day. You wanted me to spill my crap all over you?”
His volume creeps up. Wanted? No. Expected? Different story. It’s what men do. Spill their crap over anyone and everyone in spitting—or hitting—distance.
The keys clutched in my hand jingle as I tug the lapels of my sweater together.
“Dang, Sydnee.” Gray lifts his ball cap, forks his hair, and slaps it down again. A block over, an engine revs and tires peel out. The bass of a stereo beats the night air.
He blows out a long breath, downshifting from irritation to tenderness. He reaches out. “Syd…”
Nope.
I sidestep and whirl for the door. There are multiple ways a man can be dangerous, and I freely admit there’s one of them with which I have less than no experience. It’s better that way. Safer for sure.
I step onto the low porch and jam the key in the lock.
“Are you running from me, Sydnee Carson?”
The words stop me with one foot suspended above the threshold. “No!” I spin—only to find Grayson has joined me on the sliver of a porch.
My heartbeat malfunctions, then regulates as I register his posture, a negligent lean against the rotted post, his sneakers crossed.
He scoops the dusky blue cap from his head and taps it on his thigh. “’Cause it sure looks like you are.” One eye squints. “Kind of feels like it, too.”
“I…I’m not running. I’m just tired.”
“Yeah? Me, too.”