He looks at me, puzzled. “Are you fucking with me?”
“What? No. I’m being serious right now. This is what I want to know. Well, one of the things, but it’s a great starting point.”
His fingers clench around the straps again.
I wiggle under his stare, the weight of it too intense to bear. He makes no bones about taking me in, searching every last bit of me.
“Grayson …” I say finally.
He drops his hands from his shoulders. “You really think that?”
I roll my eyes.
“Fine. I’ll break this down for ya.” He runs his tongue around the inside of his cheek. “You aren’t a speed bump. You’re no fucking wallflower. Girls like you are it—you’re the prize at the end of the game.”
My mouth goes dry.
I’m the … what?
His tone lowers. “Some dudes won’t want the prize—they aren’t ready for it. So, they’ll get a taste of what life will be like someday if they ever find a woman like you that’ll have them and all their fucked-up-ness. Other men will be too scared of you to even say shit because they know they don’t deserve you and fear that you’ll discover that and make them feel even more worthless.”
I blink. Twice. Three times.
I hold my breath and wait for the punchline. I wait for the or, the but, the and then there’s the other guy … but he doesn’t say anything else.
My head spins. My brain threatens to explode. My heart pumps blood so fast throughout my body that I think I might pass out.
The only thing that keeps me on my feet is the stare of the gorgeous man in front of me. Who is this man with so many words? Because, what the hell?
His eyes shine with sincerity. The blue streaks that I now know exist sparkle amidst the grays. The smirk that I usually see on his lips is replaced with a soft, slow smile that melts my heart into liquid goo.
“So, I’m a prize?” I say, feeling like I need to say something.
The words break the tension, and he laughs.
“Which guy are you?” I tease. “You’re the one who doesn’t want the prize, aren’t you? You’re not ready for a woman like me.”
He takes a step back and takes his backpack off. He holds it at his side, the white of his knuckles making the ink staining them pop.
“That’s okay,” I say, walking by him. “That’s what guys like Bryant are for.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands straight up. I turn around to see Grayson looking at me, his eyes wild.
“What?” I ask, oblivious to what caused the change in his mood.
He grins. It’s not the easy, comfortable smile from a moment ago. It’s deeper. Darker. Seductive.
I swallow a moan and reach for the trunk of a tree beside the path.
“Guys like Bryant, huh?” he asks, each word punctuated.
The confident woman I’m truly not chooses this moment to reappear. Emboldened by the heat of Grayson’s gaze and the grittiness of his voice, I bat my lashes.
“Well, guys like Bryant aren’t afraid to at least taste what life will be like for them someday,” I say, not daring to break eye contact.
His chest rises and falls. He licks his lips.
I lick mine right back. “Thanks for the insight, Gray. It’s been a real pleasure.”
I turn away from him and take one single step onto the beach when a set of hands digs into my hips.
Six
Haley
Externally, I freeze.
Internally, I explode.
Grayson’s body is hard, his chest like a steel wall at my back. His fingers bite into my skin. It’s a sensation that would make me cry out or at least jump without the flood of hormones coursing through my body.
I stare straight ahead at the pristine waters of the lake and wait for him to say something—to do something.
Please. Please, do something.
His breath is hot against my neck. “You wanna know what I think?”
The question feels so incredibly loaded. I bite anyway.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice all but a whisper.
“I think you don’t really want a nice guy like Bryant.”
He moves so his lips nearly brush my skin. I can sense their proximity and can hear the closeness of his breathing.
My backpack drops to the ground with a thud.
“I think,” he says, squeezing deeper into my hips, “that’s why you think you don’t understand men. You have no interest in getting to know that kind of man.”
I force a swallow, trying to steady myself. Every insolent poke and prod has gotten me to this point—a point that’s way over my head. I’m drowning.
Still, I’m not mad at it. I’m not scared. I may be batting way out of my league, but I’m comfortable with the proverbial bat in my hand.
I take a long, deep breath and center myself.
“Maybe you’re right,” I say, lifting my chin. “Maybe I don’t want Ed Sheeran lyrics after all.”