The Friend Zone (Game On, #2)(12)

“Damn straight,” he mutters, still worked up. “And no more feeling shitty for things given to you by people who love you.”

“Okay.”

He huffs, not looking at me but drumming his fingers on the pink steering wheel. “Where am I taking you, then?”

“Head toward the portico next to the garage. We’re back there.”

Gray drives to the rear of the property and the little guesthouse appears.

“This is home,” I say. “Or as close to it as we have in the area.”

It looks like a gamekeeper’s cottage, with mullioned windows and a peaked roof. The house is raised from the ground, and a set of stairs leads up to the front door.

“Now that looks like a home,” Gray says, sounding pleased.

As soon as we step out of the car, Fi’s opening the front door. Her skin has a greenish tinge but she’s smiling wide. “Well, well, well. Look at what the cat dragged in.”

Petite and lithe, with short pale blonde hair and big green eyes, my sister is like a big-mouthed Tinker Bell. And I’ve missed the hell out of her.

“Hey there, Fi-Fi,” I call up with a grin.

“Ivy Weed.” She shifts from foot to foot, as if she wants to race down the stairs and launch herself at me. Which would be our customary greeting, complete with hugs and kisses. But clearly she’s too ill to do that now. Her gaze leaves me and settles on Gray. I almost laugh at the way her mouth falls open and she stands straighter.

“Fiona, this is Gray Grayson.”

Gray, who has been hauling my luggage out of the trunk, turns and gives her a smile. “Hey. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Fi clears her throat. “Likewise. Although it looks like my sister left out some pertinent parts. I’d come say hello properly but you should probably stay well away from me at the moment.” Fi grimaces as if she’s just realized that she’s standing in the doorway wearing her fuzzy pink robe and slippers that look like SpongeBob’s head. “In fact,” she says faintly, “I’m going to lie down now. I’ll see you in a few, Ivy.”

I get a nice, hard glare before Fi practically runs away.

“She’s mortified,” I tell Gray as we head toward the house. “Fi never wants any guy to see her in anything other than full-on makeup.”

“She’s cute as a button,” Gray says happily.

I’d be worried, but he doesn’t look interested in Fi, which is a relief. I’ve been friends with guys who have panted over Fi. It never ends well.

The house is open concept with a living room in the center and a dining nook and an L-shaped kitchen to one side. Fi’s redecorated since I’d last been here. Now the walls are chocolate brown, the couches big and covered in cream-colored microfiber. A distressed-wood coffee table sits between them, and sepia photographs of cityscapes hang in a grid pattern along one wall.

“Fi’s majoring in interior design,” I tell Gray, as I set my purse on the hall console that looks like it was once a pharmacist’s cabinet. “I’m thinking she charmed my dad out of a few dollars.”

“It’s nice.” His blue eyes scan the room. “Kind of reminds me of Drew’s place. But, you know, more professionally done.”

“I’d give you a tour,” I tell him, “but I want to scrub down the area first.”

Gray sets my bags to the side. “Yeah, I’m not going to stress your sister any more than I’ve already done. I’ll just leave you here.”

For a moment, we stare at each other. I don’t want him to leave. Maybe he doesn’t want to go. It’s a strange feeling, as though I’ll lose him if he walks out the door. Which is ridiculous. Perhaps that’s why I launch myself at him and wrap my arms around his neck in a fierce hug.

“Sorry,” I tell his shoulder, because I don’t want to let go. “I’m just so happy to finally be with you.”

And then I realize that he’s hugging me back. His arms are tight bands around my waist, his body pressed to mine. He kisses the top of my head. “Me too, Ivy Mac.”

I force myself to let go and make a production out of smoothing his rumpled shirt before stepping back entirely. “I better go and see to Fi.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he brushes my chin with his knuckle. “Call you later, okay?” He hesitates for just a moment more. And then he’s gone, leaving the house in utter silence.

That is until Fi lets out a pitiful moan. “Can I come out now?”

I laugh. “No. Stay put. I’ll come find you.”

“I’m in your room. Puking on your bed because you didn’t warn me that you were bringing a hot guy home, you f*ckface.”

Our rooms flank each side of the living space, mine closer to the kitchen. I head that way with a grin. “I’m sorry! Really, I am.”

“Sure, sure.” Fi’s voice grows clearer as I enter my room.

But I stop and take it in with shocked awe. Because she’s redecorated in here too. “Fi… Wow.”

“Surprise,” she says feebly from her slump on my bed.

The entire room is done in shades of cream—the walls, the simple-lined but plush furniture, the plush carpet over pine floorboards. I never would have thought of it, but it’s so restful and serene, I’m in instant love. The bed is the showstopper, an enormous white canopy. Because Fi knows my style, she didn’t go for girly but chose a classic, wood frame so that the bed resembles a structured cube. White linens and a mass of plump pillows make it soft and inviting.