The Friend Zone (Game On, #2)(11)

Pink washes over his cheeks as he leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table. And I notice another thing about him, his body is always moving in some fashion. “Okay, this is probably going to sound insulting,” he says, “but it isn’t meant to be.”

“Already, I’m totally reassured,” I deadpan.

He grimaces, but doesn’t hold back. “When I was sixteen, I bought my first car. My truck. It was a piece-of-shit 1983 Ford F100.”

“Not liking the sound of this, but go on.”

A smile grows on his face. “It was a junker, but I could imagine what she’d look like some day.”

“She?”

“Yeah, she. Would you pay attention to the story, Mac?”

“Sorry.” I’m grinning. “Go on.”

“So I spent the summer at Drew’s house, fixing it up with the help of Drew and his dad. John Baylor was awesome that way. He’d oversee, teach me and Drew what we needed to do, but left it up to us to learn. We rebuilt the engine, fixed the body, found a new interior for her. Day came that the truck was done.” Gray’s expression turns inward. “God, she was perfect, shiny black with a cream interior. I sat in my truck all day, just looking at her lines, running my hands over the leather bench seat. I couldn’t stop staring.” His eyes meet mine, and I find I’m holding my breath. “Because the dream was finally real.”

My throat constricts, and I swallow hard. “Cupcake…”

Gray flushes deeper pink, and he picks at the edge of our chicken basket. “It’s corny, I know. But I thought of that.” His gaze flicks up to mine. “You’re finally here, and I can’t seem to stop staring.”

Suddenly it’s too much. The squiggly red lines of the retro Formica table blur as I blink down at it.

“Shit,” Gray mutters. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was a compliment, I swear. I’ll take it back if—”

“Don’t you dare,” I snap, lifting my head to glare. “It was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

His smile is lopsided and a bit unsure. “Then we’re going to have to work on improving that record.”

I know he’s trying to lighten things up, and he probably regrets telling me that story. I kind of regret it too, because he’s turned me into a ball of mush. Staring back at this insanely gorgeous, sweetly thoughtful man who is now my friend, I feel a twinge of loss. From early on, I’d put him firmly in the friend zone, not wanting to develop deeper feelings for a guy I know is a player and treats me like his best pal. And that was okay, because I want Gray’s friendship. I cherish it.

Only now I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. Would we have been more than friends if I hadn’t drawn that line in the sand? But what-ifs don’t matter; we’re friends now, and there is no way I’d risk ruining that by dreaming of more. Besides, in a few months I’ll be back in London with a whole ocean between us.

Smiling back at Gray, I discreetly put a hand to my aching chest and try to press that sense of loss away.





Three





Ivy


When Gray pulls into the circular drive of my dad’s home, he lets out a slow whistle. “That’s some house.”

It’s a monstrosity. One of the new Southern mansions that attempts to look like a chateau but uses sandstone brick and terracotta tiles, and has an obvious newness about it that will never fade into gentility. I know it pisses my dad off that we refuse to live in it, but he’s rarely home and the place literally echoes when you walk inside it. Fi and I are holding out hope that he’ll give up the ghost and find himself a nice townhome more suitable to our small family.

I stare up at the house. “Sometimes when I look at this place, I feel like the biggest *.”

Gray’s laugh is startled. “Why?”

“I know how many people would kill to live here. And I don’t want it. I hate the place. And, I don’t know… I feel like an ingrate.”

He tilts his head to get a better view of the house. “I don’t know, Mac. There’s a house, and there’s home. That doesn’t look particularly homey to me.”

Slowly, I shake my head. “But I shouldn’t complain about it. I’ve lived my life completely cosseted. I take the money my parents give me and never need to support myself. What kind of person does that make me?”

“My friend.” He crosses his big arms over his chest, and gives me a hard look. “So don’t go beating up on her. Hell, Mac, you worked your butt off and graduated a year early. It isn’t as if you’re going around partying and blowing through money. You want to know what pisses me off?”

“What?” I ask with a small smile, because he’s cute when he’s irate and his brows are inching toward his hairline.

“All our lives, we’re told work hard, strive for more, do all you can to live that life less ordinary. Money, power, fame, everyone wants it. But you get there and suddenly you’re supposed to be ashamed, be humble?” He shakes his head. “Fuck that noise. I say live your life on your terms. If someone judges you about material things, that’s their problem.”

My smile grows, and I set my hand on his arm where the muscles are thick and bulging beneath his warm skin. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”