ight,” West said, getting to his feet. “Grayson is here. Something about…breakfast.”
“In my closet?” I exclaimed, holding my towel tighter.
What was he doing? We were supposed to sneak out later to go to the doctor’s. Key word being sneak.
Whatever fire had been in Grayson’s eyes died, leaving them stony blue-silver. He rubbed the back of his neck, calm. “You were holding everyone up. That’s fucking rude.”
“Almost as rude as barging in on a woman changing?”
Grayson’s jaw clenched like he wanted to say something; then with eyes like cut stone, calm, arrogant Grayson Crowne returned. He turned on his heel and left.
West raised his hands, backing out slowly.
Just friends. Just friends. I repeated it to myself over and over again. I could be friends with Grayson Crowne. He needed a friend. He didn’t have any friends, not really.
I needed a friend.
I didn’t have any.
I can do this. Just friends.
But when I saw Grayson Crowne in his dark gray suit, his hair messed like he hadn’t slept, I knew I was fucked.
GRAY
* * *
Downstairs we held an informal reception for the first of my relatives who’d arrived in the morning, complete with live orchestra and brunch. It was the season for Meyer lemons, and my mother was throwing a fucking fit that we couldn’t use them in everything on account of that small bother it would kill my wife.
I was grateful. Grateful I didn’t have to eat a reminder of Snitch every five seconds.
Snitch was with West, who kept his arm around her as they talked with my aunt. My aunt Hetty always smelled like cigarettes and perfume, and was always somehow, someway, in need of money.
Hetty shoved her glass to Snitch.
Snitch took it, holding it with a furrow in her brow. My gut twisted in anger as I tamped down the urge to shove my aunt out of my fucking house.
Instead I grabbed the glass from Snitch and gave it back to my aunt.
She blinked, wide-eyed.
“Are you in the habit of pawning off your trash onto my guests?”
“She’s…a servant?” Hetty looked at the way Snitch was dressed, confusion in her eyes. Abigail was supposed to get her more dresses. She’d come downstairs in a nun outfit. And, fuck, I missed those outfits.
I pulled out my phone, quickly texting, Why are you dressed like a nun?
Story pulled out her phone, and when she saw the text, her eyes widened; then she quickly put it away.
I quirked my neck to the side. I did not like that.
So I texted her again.
And again.
Her phone vibrated until everyone looked at her.
“Do you need to get that?” Lottie asked.