Worth the Risk(93)

None of them have gotten a response, and now this.

I look at the hangar in front of me and wonder what he is doing. What this means. I try to rein in the hope that maybe he wants to try to fix things. Maybe he wants to ask me to stay.

What would I say if that were the case? Would I agree? Would I give up my life in San Francisco? Would I give up the job at Haute? All for a chance at love? All for a life with him, here?

I don’t have the answers. I don’t know.

That’s a lie. I do know. And maybe that’s why nerves rattle around as I get out of the car and head to the hangar with the big Wings Out sign above it.

Unsettled and excited, shock mixes in there when I pull open the hangar door to find a table sitting in the middle of the room. There is a mess of candles and a bottle of wine in the center of a red-checkered tablecloth.

It’s oddly romantic in a way that wouldn’t have appealed to me in my old life, but being here, meeting Grayson Malone, may have changed that . . . and many other ways I look at the world.

He’s going to steal my heart, isn’t he? He’s going to tell me he’s sorry in that way he has, he’s going to tell me he wants me to stay, and I’m going to have to make a decision. Six months ago, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelash before I packed my bag and hopped on the flight back home. Standing and looking at candles flicker softly, the decision seems impossible.

My heels click on the concrete floor as I make my way over to the table. Music is playing softly on speakers somewhere in the hangar. There’s a bunch of wild, white daisies in a vase, and napkins folded in an attempt at something artsy that doesn’t quite make it but is thoughtful nonetheless.

The door behind me opens, and my heart jumps in my throat when I turn to find Grayson there, haloed by the sun setting at his back. A tight-lipped smile spreads across those kissable lips, and confusion flickers in his eyes.

“You did all this?” he asks, surprise in his voice as he takes a few steps toward me.

“Me?” I laugh nervously. “I thought you did.”

We both turn at the sound of footsteps, and if it were even possible, my heart falls further. There’s Luke in a vest and slacks with a napkin over his arm and a sheepish smile on his face.

“Luke?” Grayson asks as he looks at me and then back at his son. He obviously didn’t expect him to be here.

“I request your presents at the dinner table,” he says loudly before glancing into the far corner of the warehouse and nodding to someone I can’t see.

“Presence,” Grayson corrects as if it’s second nature before turning and looking at me. “Did you know anything about this?”

I shake my head. “I thought this was all you.”

The look he gives me—eyes narrowed and a slight roll of his shoulders—tells me he’s here out of courtesy. He came here thinking I set this up, and he wanted to see what I had to say. What he doesn’t realize is that with that one revelation, he’s given me a tiny bit of hope that we can right our wrongs.

“I think we’ve been set up,” he mutters under his breath, his irritation palpable despite the smile he displays for his son.

“I think I’m okay with that,” I say and give him a soft smile. Then he places his hand on the small of my back out of manners and ushers me to the table.

“What’s all this, buddy?” Gray asks, struggling to be gracious to his son while still resenting me. He tries to pick Luke up but has his hands batted away.

“I am your server this evening,” Luke says and tries not to giggle. When he fails, and his laughter echoes in the space around us, it’s almost as if an invisible weight has been lifted. As if Luke’s laughter is the encouragement we need to maybe take the first step to talking. “It isn’t kind of you to touch the servers.”

“It isn’t, is it?” Grayson chuckles. “What’s going on?”

“I wanted you and Sidney to have a nice dinner before the final vote . . . and before she has to leave.” And it’s out there. I swallow over the lump in my throat and hate Grayson’s wince. “I thought a romantic dinner without children present was very important. And without people in town knowing so you don’t mess up the vote.”

“Without children present?” Grayson says and lifts his brow.

“Servers are not children.” He laughs again, and another piece of my heart falls at this little boy’s feet. “And this server selected every item on your menu tonight, so don’t throw tomatoes if you don’t like it.”

“We promise not to, especially since said server doesn’t like tomatoes,” Grayson says and winks.

We are both given the biggest grin, which is followed by a nod. “I’ll leave you two to get settled, then. Oh, and wine is there. Breathing when it doesn’t have lungs.” He rolls his eyes. “But I’m not old enough to touch it, so that part you have to do yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” Grayson says. “May I ask who’s helping you?”

“Women.” It’s all he says and grins.

Emerson. Betsy. Dylan. My bet’s on them.

“Thank you, kind sir. Tell the women thank you, too,” I say and turn to look at Grayson. He quickly averts his eyes, but not before I catch the appreciative once-over he gives me.

Silence settles. Shifts. Smothers. We stand here, both more than aware of the millions of unspoken words that need to be said. We are also aware that doing so would risk disappointing a little boy with a wild imagination and a huge heart, who only wants the best for his father.