He ducks under the door, and I pause to catch my breath. By the time I get to the bedroom, he’s gone.
17
Gray
Damn woman. We haven’t even officially started preparing for the mission, and I’m already regretting reading her in. I knew the risk, but I was confident I could put firm boundaries in place.
So much for that.
The sun’s peeking over the horizon, as I grind fresh coffee beans, trying not to make too much noise. Just because I can’t sleep doesn’t mean she shouldn’t. Although, after the meltdown last night, I doubt she slept much either.
Sex wasn’t supposed to be on the table—not yet. I took it off so it wouldn’t weigh on her—so that she could relax for a couple of days without the elephant in the room. The problem is, whenever we’re together, the goddamn elephant’s always in the room, trumpeting loudly in shiny, bright colors neither of us can ignore.
No more excuses. I fucked up last night. Big time. Plain and simple.
I hear her on the stairs, and before I can figure out what to say to her, she’s in the kitchen, dressed for a run. “Good morning,” I say cautiously. It seems like a reasonable place to start.
“Mornin’. I thought you’d be out by now—jumpin’ in the waves or whatever it is you like to do.”
“I decided to run this morning. I waited for you.”
“I run alone,” she tosses over her shoulder on the way out the door.
“Not today.” I’m not giving her a chance to work this out alone with a punishing run. She can pound the ground, but I’ll be alongside her.
“Don’t expect chitchat,” she huffs.
It’s impossible to explain the effect her spurious contempt and sass have on me. It’s not how I normally interact with women. I don’t even like it—unless it’s from her. Unless it’s her smart mouth telling me to go fuck myself, in that Mississippi drawl that I feel deep in my balls every time I hear it.
We hit the sand at the same time. “You didn’t expect there to be consequences when you interrupted my shower? Even after I had made it clear there would be no sex.”
“I expected—”
“Me to slap your ass and give you a nice big orgasm. Is that how it worked in your relationship with Kyle?” Douchebag move. The very second I say it, I regret it.
“The relationship I had with my husband is out of bounds. It’s a hard limit. So if you need me to stroke your ego and tell you how much better you are than any other lover I’ve ever had, or that your dick is bigger, then you’ll be disappointed. Because it would be a lie—and even if it weren’t, I would never sully any past relationship with the likes of you.”
Just because I deserve being notched a few pegs below an abusive asshole doesn’t make it sting less.
Delilah lengthens her stride and takes off ahead of me. I let her go, staying just a few steps behind. She pushes harder and harder as we run up the beach. I’m in excellent shape, but I’m struggling to keep pace. This needs to end. Now.
I pick up my stride and grab her arm, forcing her to stop.
“Let go of me,” she cries, trying to shake her arm free.
But I don’t let go. “If you want to finish the run, you need to talk to me first. Say what’s on your mind. Go ahead.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“That’s a start. Now tell me why.”
“There aren’t enough hours left in my lifetime for me to fully answer that.”
I squeeze her arm tighter. “You have a voice. You’ll always have a voice with me.”
“Like last night, you mean? Or this morning when I told you I run alone?”
“I said you have a voice. I didn’t say you’ll always get what you want. I need to hear your words,” I say softly. “I care about how you feel. And if you don’t talk to me, it will be hard to meet your needs.”
She lowers her eyes, and some of the pent-up energy dissipates. I drop her arm, but not before rubbing the spot where I clutched it.
“I’m confused, Gray. I like the waters clear. It’s how I work best. This—between us—it’s murky. I don’t navigate murky very well.”
“I can navigate for both of us, but you need to let me.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“I fucked up last night. I should have sent you back to bed when you came into the shower. That’s what you needed—what the moment required—consistent, firm boundaries that we could both respect.” She gazes up at me. The anger is mostly gone but the pain from last night is all over her face. “But I wanted you. More than I’ve ever wanted anything. And I acted without self-control or discipline.”
As much as I want to look away, I force myself to stare into her sad face. To memorize every furrow and line. To commit the lifeless color in her eyes to memory. I want the vulnerability that’s surrounding her to be tattooed on my brain. All of it. So that the next time I’m tempted to be reckless, it’ll all come flooding back. “I should have never let it happen.”
She regards me quietly, her chest rising and falling. I expect her to say something. I want her to say something. But instead, she reaches for my hand, squeezes my fingers in a quick, easy move, and takes off running down the beach.
“I suppose that’s how rich boys from Charleston apologize,” she calls over her shoulder. “Apology accepted.” The last part is carried by the wind, but it reaches me. Her grace is not lost on me either.
She’s much too quick to forgive an asshole. But I’ll take the peace…while it lasts.
When we get back to the house, I hand Delilah a water and pour some coffee. I keep half an eye on her while I scroll through a barrage of messages.
While these moments seem insignificant, the routine interactions are vitally important. It’s the way a trained eye will assess our relationship. Even strangers can play kissy games. It’s the other stuff, the small stuff, that’s the real test of whether a relationship is authentic or bullshit. That’s why we’re spending the next two weeks together, day and night. It should be enough time for us to fall into a comfortable rhythm.
After Delilah finishes her water, she goes to the refrigerator and pulls out the cobbler we didn’t eat last night. “I’m going to warm this. Do you want some?”
I shake my head. “I’m all set.” She spoons a generous portion into a glass bowl and shoves it into the microwave. Chef Renaud at Wildflower would have a heart attack if he knew she was microwaving his precious cobbler. “You’re really going to have that for breakfast? There’s yogurt, eggs, and some fresh fruit.”
“I like something sweet in the morning. I usually have a Pop-Tart.”
“A Pop-Tart?”
“Yeah. You know, the toaster pastries.”
“The breakfast of champions.”
She whacks me on the arm playfully. “Don’t be a snob. We can’t all enjoy foie gras on toast points. Not enough ducks and geese in the world for that.” She grimaces, sticking out her tongue. “I like strawberry Pop-Tarts with icing and rainbow sugar crystals. If I’m going to stay at your place, you better put it on the shopping list.”