“Of course.”
My words were barely a whisper.
“We’ll have a poetry reading when you get back,” he said with a smile. “Everything will be fine.”
We hung up, and I went to Lottie.
“Mrs. Cr—oh.” I broke off as my eyes connected with Grayson.
I nearly lost my breath at Grayson in all white for Labor Day. His stark white tailored suit with matching shirt, the top two buttons undone, showing a glimpse of his perfect golden chest. It was both polished and casual in a way only he could pull off.
I could already see the headlines…the trends that would follow, all because Grayson Crowne decided he felt like wearing something.
“Gray—I mean, Mr. Crowne, I didn’t know you’d be here. I’m here for your wife’s tea.”
Did you give me that journal? Why?
All the whys between us piled like thorns until they became briar I couldn’t navigate. Why did you choose her? Why did you leave? Why won’t you just let me go?
Why do you look so broken every time I see you?
“I thought you were Lottie,” he said.
“Not this time,” I whispered.
A small, barely-there smile cracked my lips.
Stifling.
I held the tea tray like I had the first time we’d been together. The first time he’d mistaken me for his wife. A sucker stem poked out from his pouty pink lips, and he had a forlorn look in his blue eyes.
“Have you been chewing suckers all day?” I asked softly. His jaw tightened, and immediately I backtracked. “I’m sorry it’s not—”
I broke off and braced myself for a repeat of last night, for more cruel and thorny words from him.
“You have to stop doing that, Snitch.”
Our eyes caught. The intensity in his blue gaze almost made me swallow my words.
“Doing what?” I whispered.
“Being the only person in the world paying attention to me.”
The air froze and a little bit off the walls he’d erected crumbled; through them I saw inside his soul, I saw Grayson again.
Grayson Crowne had to be one of the most-watched people in the world, but maybe he was right, and I was the only one who really saw him. What kind of twisted irony was that? Because I wasn’t even supposed to look at him.
Sharing his gaze was technically forbidden.
“How is Woodsy?” he asked, voice rough, eyes still locked.
“You would know better than me. He lies to me.”
He laughed. “He lies to me too.”
“Prideful old man,” I said.
“He won’t take my money. Won’t let me pay for his treatment. Anything.”