This is the look of a man who feels regret.
My bottom lip trembles, and I bite it to stop it.
Grayson is the picture of a man who is terrified that a woman will feel an attachment to him.
That woman is me.
And that woman feels humiliated.
I should’ve known better.
I rip my gaze from him and grab the remote. “The sports channel?” I ask. “Any one in particular?”
“Nah,” the blond one says. “Anything is better than the news.”
“I agree with you there.”
“Do you like sports?” he asks me.
I put some distance between Grayson and myself. “Yeah. Some of them. I like boxing and football.”
The blond’s brows raise. “Who is your favorite boxer?”
“Roy Jones Jr. It’s not a competition. He’s hands-down the greatest of all time.”
The two men burst out laughing.
“What?” I ask.
“We were sitting here wondering if you had a flaw,” the blond says. “My buddy here says you’re probably one of those women who hate anything sports or outdoors related, but you just proved him wrong.”
I turn sideways so I can see Grayson out of the side of my eye. “I went hiking yesterday.”
The two men comment, but I don’t hear what they say. My focus is on the man to my right.
Grayson’s eyes drift immediately from the television to me. I don’t make eye contact with him but try to read his posture instead.
He’s a brick wall. Square shoulders. Lifted chin. Smooth features.
My chest aches right along with the rest of my body, and it’s all his doing. Every last throb of it.
The men in front of me continue their banter about God knows what while I ponder my current situation.
“Are you dating anyone?” the blond asks. “’Cause I’d sure like to take you out sometime.”
I watch Grayson for any hint of emotion. Anything. A furrowed brow or a tight lip. A flexed jaw or a hard grasp of his bottle.
But there’s nothing.
There’s absolutely no inclination of him having any care or thought about me being asked out by a stranger at all.
A lump lodges in my throat.
“What do you think?” I ask as I look at Grayson.
He sits quietly, stiff as a board, for a long couple of seconds. Then he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and lays a couple of bills on the bar.
His gaze lingers on me as he stands. His jaw is locked as if he has no intention of answering my question.
My breath stalls in my chest. My spirits sink as I resolve to accept reality. He doesn’t want me.
The bridge of my nose burns as I sniffle back the surge of sadness and anger erupting from my heart. Because even though it’s Occam’s razor’s answer—it’s the simplest solution—I don’t quite believe it. I don’t believe, truly, that’s what he was doing. A hefty part of my anger is directed at myself for that very reason.
I’m still giving him the benefit of the doubt. But I can’t help it.
Tears blur my vision, and I want to shout at him. I want to ask him what all that shit was about when he said I was a prize.
“Which guy are you?” I tease. “You’re the one who doesn’t want the prize, aren’t you? You aren’t ready for a woman like me”
I wasn’t wrong. He had his taste. He sampled the speed bump and wants nothing more to do with me. And I don’t think it’s only that he’s not ready for a woman like me anymore.
He doesn’t even want a woman like me.
I close my eyes for the briefest second and let that bolt of reality impale my heart.
“See ya tomorrow,” he says before turning on his heel and walking out.
Corbin’s hand falls to my shoulder, jolting me.
“Hey, pal. You good?” he asks.
“Yup,” I say through the burn in my throat.
“Why don’t you let me close for the night? Go ahead and take off.”
If I walk out of here, I’m going to chase down Grayson. As much as I want to do that, I don’t want to do that.
“I’m good,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ll stay.”
Corbin pats my shoulder and then walks away. When I turn around, the blond guy is looking at me, oblivious to what just transpired.
“So?” he asks with a big smile. “Wanna go out tomorrow?”
I glance at the door again just in time to see Grayson’s truck pull out of the parking lot.
“You know what?” I say. “I’d love that.”
And fuck Grayson Blake.
Eleven
Haley
“I really hope that look indicates that you had a wild night with Grayson and not … something else,” Kaylee says, making a face as I walk in the back door of Cherry Pie Pizza.
“Good morning to you too.”
She grips a large plastic spoon and moves it around and around an oversized soup pot. It looks like it takes more energy to stir whatever she’s making than I have today.