Beyond What is Given(10)

“Since now.”

We shuffled into the kitchen, and Grayson heaped my plate with chicken and pasta, then sat me down at the table next to him. Once everyone was seated, I reached for my fork and nearly knocked over my water. Grayson caught my glass and moved it far enough from my plate that it wouldn’t happen again. “Thanks,” I muttered, then concentrated on cutting my chicken. My knife slipped twice before Grayson sighed.

He stole my plate and cut my dinner into bite-size pieces, sliding it back without a word. I side-eyed him, but his face gave no indication of what he was thinking.

Conversation struck up between the guys, punctuated by a laugh or answer from Paisley, like everything was normal. They didn’t give me a chance to feel embarrassed, either by my outburst or my drunkenness, just drew me in as I relaxed and sobered up. Wow. That chicken was good. Okay, maybe still a little drunk.

“I’m sorry for everything,” I said to Grayson as he cleared my plate after dinner, the other three having left. “I’m not normally so…”

“Drunk?” he supplied, keeping his wide back to me as he loaded my plate in the dishwasher.

My cheeks burned. “Yeah. I know I’m a giant inconvenience. Hell of a first impression, right?” He stilled, took a few breaths, and I stood as he turned toward me. His face was unreadable, which I was beginning to think might be the status quo. “I’m going to head to bed and hope today was all a nightmare. Thank you, seriously.”

“Samantha,” he called as I was passing the half wall that divided the kitchen from the living room.

“Yeah?”

“You’re not an inconvenience. Maybe a pain in the ass, but you’re not an inconvenience. And if there’s something I’ve learned from living here, it’s that Josh and Jagger make you family. We’re a dysfunctional one, but family nonetheless, and now you are, too.”

His eyes locked on to mine, and I forgot to breathe. Intensity poured off him, holding me captive, and I was torn between longing to get closer to whatever fire fueled him, and my sense of self-preservation warning me from the burn. Not that it mattered what I was thinking. He was talking about family, and my mind was skipping to things most definitely not PG, and way inappropriate. Do not make an ass out of yourself any more than you already have. He dropped his gaze, breaking the moment, and I sucked in a breath.

There was definitely more to him than I initially thought.

“Get to bed, so you can get up early and pull your shit together, Sam. We all make mistakes, but I’m not pulling you off another bar.”

Never mind. He was still an ass.





Chapter Five


Grayson


Tacos? The scent hit me as I walked in the door from the gym on Monday night, and my mouth watered. With Jagger and Josh on a different detail, both working late, it had to be Samantha cooking. Alicia Keys playing on the iPod confirmed the thought. It had been a week since Sam moved in with us, and despite nearly constant contact while I was home, I’d managed to control my reaction to her. I dropped my gym bag on the floor and rounded the corner into the kitchen to tell her I was here.

Damn.

She swayed with the slow beat, stirring the meat sizzling in the pan, and a new hunger took precedence over my stomach. Her khaki shorts—if they could be called that—hugged her ass perfectly, and the white tank top only made her skin look warmer, more kissable.

But something was different… Her hair. It didn’t rest against the tops of her breasts anymore. She’d cut it clear to her chin in a sleek bob that Mia would have called “edgy.”

The most ludicrous vision played itself out in my mind—how easy it would be to slide up behind her, brush her hair away from her cheek, and run my lips along the delicate line of her neck. I shook my head to clear it. “Hey,” I muttered, hoping not to scare her.

She jumped anyway.

“Ooh! Grayson!” She turned, revealing a fitted apron that read Kiss the cook, which was longer than her sorry excuse for shorts. “You’re home!”

The words struck something in me, cracked open a piece of me that I thought I’d fortified a little thicker than that. But she looked like a better meal than the one on the stove, she was happy to see me, and she…she cooked for me. I was defenseless against that combo. “Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “You cooked?”

“Apparently.” She pointed the spatula up at the cabinet. “Grab the plates, we’re about ready to eat.”

“I always cook.” Wrong thing to say, you moron.

She arched an eyebrow. “Are you complaining?”

I shook my head. Why couldn’t she do something stupid? It was a hell of a lot easier to keep her at arm’s length when she was drunk on a bar. Well, until I’d pulled her into the very arms I was trying to shove her away with. But she’d been ready to topple over, guys ogling right up that tiny skirt, and it was either get her down or start swinging punches.

So naturally I’d climbed up onto the bar like any other rational roommate. Right, because Jagger was climbing up there, too. Roommate, my ass.

“Good. Then get the plates.”

“I should shower first.” I was still soaked in sweat from the gym. Where the hell was this self-consciousness coming from?

Her eyes raked down my frame with a healthy amount of appreciation. “Well, you have about five minutes before dinner starts getting cold.”