While I worked at the club, I occasionally caught a glimpse of callous ruthlessness, and when I left, it was ugly. But otherwise, I never saw the cruel side of him, and I’m struggling to understand it.
After stowing a small backpack in the side compartment, he climbs onto the Harley and I climb on behind him. The backseat is elevated and I can see over his shoulder. “Ready?” he asks, as the garage door opens.
“Yes.” I say it with confidence, but I’m not sure I am ready. Not about the ride—that’s the easy part—but about spending a night alone with him. A night with unspoken expectations, in a place far removed from real-world ramifications. Like Christmas at Wildflower. How did that work out for you, Delilah? You want another chance to wreck your life? It’s not too late to back out. Not yet.
I was born with the common sense and practicality of a Depression-era mamaw. And I listen to my gut all the time. Always have. But that Spidey sense is different from the little nagging voice. The one that whispers you shouldn’t have that fourth margarita, or you shouldn’t kick the asshole harassing you in the nuts. I’ve always found that voice to be a whiny little bitch and I rarely pay it any mind. Today is no different.
When we’re out of traffic, Gray lets the bike go. I hold on tighter, my fingertips acutely aware of his skin, even though there are layers of fabric between us.
It’s been almost six years since I’ve been on the back of a bike. Right before Kyle died. It’s as exhilarating and as thrilling as I remember. But I don’t recall it ever being as freeing and calming as it is today. I cling to Gray’s waist, enjoying the ride while the powerful machine hums between my legs.
The temperature has dropped a few degrees by the time we pull into the driveway of a two-story shingled house, with sprays of bright-pink beach roses climbing a wooden fence. The house sits all alone at the end of the point, practically on the sand. There’s a widow’s watch with an enclosed cupola were a copper rooster sits at the highest point, basking in the afternoon sun. The house seems like an integral part of the natural habitat. Everything about it exudes peace and serenity.
“Is this your place?” I ask, removing the helmet, and running my fingers through my hair.
“You ask like you’re surprised.”
Shocked would be more apt. “I thought your tastes were more hoity-toity—like the club and your apartment. Never figured you for a white picket fence kind of guy.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you really think.” Gray chuckles, fixing his gaze on the rose-covered fence. “I’m not. The fence was here when I bought the place, and when the house was renovated, the architect insisted we keep it. It’s grown on me.” He takes my helmet. “Let’s go inside.”
After unlocking the door, he steps aside so I can go in first.
“Wow. Gray.” I walk straight to the back of the house, barely noticing the professional kitchen on my way to the wall of glass, where I gaze out over the ocean. It’s breathtaking. “The view is incredible. I’d never leave this place. Do you get out here often?”
“Not often enough,” he says, from another room.
While I’m still gawking, I feel him approach. He hands me a water bottle, but I’m too mesmerized by the waves breaking against the shore to take a drink.
Since moving to Charleston, I’ve been in some swanky places. Sweetgrass, where Gray’s brother and Gabby live, is show-stopping, and then there’s Wildflower and the apartments upstairs. Much of historic Charleston is monied. It was a lot to take in for a girl who grew up in a single-wide trailer. Normally, I pretend to take it in stride so that I don’t seem too much like a hick, but this blows me away. “I can’t believe this place.”
“You haven’t even left the window. Although the view is the best part of the place. Come on. Let me show you the rest.”
I reluctantly leave the window and follow him for a tour.
Downstairs is an open floor plan, with a sleeping porch. At least that’s what we call them where I’m from. The ceilings are high, but the house doesn’t have a lot of heavy furniture or dark colors like Wildflower. Everything is light and airy, pale grays and tans, and an array of blues and greens—all the colors of nature. The woodwork is painted a soft white, which gives the house a warm, cozy feel.
Gray points to a door on the opposite side of the kitchen. “My office is through there—it’s my private space, same as at the apartment—don’t go in unless you’re invited.”
Something about the way he says it annoys me. As though I might go poking around in his personal business. Okay, I might want to, but I would never—not unless I had good cause.
I follow him quietly up the stairs.
“Not a lot to see up here,” he says, “although the view’s better.”
That’s hard to believe.
The entire top floor is a single bedroom with hardwood floors and a soaring ceiling. A crystal chandelier hangs from an exposed beam that runs the width of the room. There’s a wall of windows, and a window seat—a window seat—that I can’t stop smiling at, and some furniture around the fireplace.
But the star of the room is an elaborately carved Tantra chair. Although the name is deceiving. Except for the characteristic dips and curves, Tantra chairs are actually more like Victorian fainting sofas or chaise lounges than chairs. Gray has one in the apartment too, but it isn’t as beautiful. This one’s a sturdy antique.
His eyes twinkle when he catches me admiring the chair. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”
It’s hard to see the chair without imagining him enjoying it with some woman. Someone leggy and glamorous, who was born knowing the difference between a wine glass and a water goblet. All of a sudden, I’m feeling peevish. “It looks like a museum piece. Not something you’d use.” This is wishful thinking.
“It’s never been used.”
“Never?” I challenge, even though I don’t really want him to say otherwise. “It’s hard to believe you haven’t at least christened it.”
“Never.” He pivots to the corner of the room. “The bathroom is through that doorway. There are towels and extra toiletries in the cupboards. Trippi picked up some things from your house that you might want. They’re in that closet.” Gray points to a door on the far wall. “Some of it’s hanging, and the rest is in the bank of drawers on the left side.”
I still for a moment. Even the serenity of the room isn’t enough to temper the anger simmering inside. “You went to my house, riffled through my belongings, and violated my privacy, Mister Stay-out-of-my-office-it’s-my-private-space?”
“Pfft. Not me. That would have about given me a heart attack. I saw your closet when I was at your house. Once was enough.”
I’m going to wring his neck. “Gray—”
“Let it go, Delilah. Let’s just try to make some peace while we’re here. We can fight about it when we get back to the city.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond before continuing the tour, but I won’t be brushed aside that easily. Although the prospect of peace is inviting.
I glance at Gray, and then out the bay window—the one with the padded cushion on the seat, where I imagine nothing better in life than curling up with a cup of hot tea to watch a storm roll in. I glance back at him, and sigh. We’ll have the discussion, but maybe it can wait a few days.