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He grimaces, but doesn’t hold back. “When I was sixteen, I bought my first car. My truck. It was a piece of shit 1983 Ford F-100.”
“Not liking the sound of this, but go on.”
A smile grows on his face. “It was a junker, but I could imagine what she’d look like someday.”
“She?”
“Yeah, she. Would you pay attention to the story, Mac?”
“Sorry.” I’m grinning. “Go on.”
“So I spent the summer at Drew’s house, fixing it up with the help of Drew and his dad. John Baylor was awesome that way. He’d oversee, teach me and Drew what we needed to do, but left it up to us to learn.
We rebuilt the engine, fixed the body, found a new interior for her. Day came that the truck was done.”
Gray’s expression turns inward. “God, she was perfect, shiny black with a cream interior. I sat in my truck all day, just looking at her lines, running my hands over the leather bench seat. I couldn’t stop staring.” His eyes meet mine. “Because the dream was finally real.”
My throat constricts, and I swallow hard. “Cupcake...”
Gray flushes deeper pink, and he picks at the edge of our chicken basket. “It’s corny, I know. But I thought of that.” His gaze flicks up to mine. “You’re finally here, and I can’t seem to stop staring.”
Suddenly it’s too much. The squiggly red lines of the retro Formica table blur as I blink down at it.
“Shit,” Gray mutters. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was a compliment, I swear. I’ll take it back if—”
“Don’t you dare,” I snap, lifting my head to give him a fierce look. “It was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
His smile is lopsided and a bit unsure. “Then we’re going to have to work on improving that record.”
I know he’s trying to lighten things up, and he probably regrets telling me that story. I kind of regret it too, because he’s turned me into a ball of mush.
Staring back at this insanely gorgeous, sweetly thoughtful man who is now my friend, I feel a twinge of loss. From early on, I’d put him firmly in the friend zone, not wanting to develop deeper feelings for a guy I know is a player and treats me like his best pal. And that was okay, because I want Gray’s friendship. I cherish it.
Only now I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. Would we have been more than friends if I hadn’t drawn that line in the sand?
But what-ifs don’t matter; we’re friends now, and there is no way I’d risk ruining that by dreaming of more. Besides, in a few months I’ll be back in London with a whole ocean between us.
Smiling back at Gray, I discreetly put a hand to my aching chest and try to press that sense of loss away.
Chapter 3
Ivy
When Gray pulls into the circular drive of my dad’s home, he lets out a slow whistle. “That’s some house.”
It’s a monstrosity. One of the new Southern mansions that attempts to look like a chateau but uses sandstone brick and terracotta tiles and has an obvious newness about it that will never fade into gentility.
I know it pisses my dad off that we refuse to live in it, but he’s rarely home and the place literally echoes when you walk inside. Fi and I are holding out hope that he’ll take the L and find himself a nice townhome more suitable to our small family.
I stare up at the house. “Sometimes, when I look at this place, I feel like the biggest asshole.”
Gray’s laugh is startled. “Why?”
“I know how many people would kill to live here. And I don’t want it. I hate the place. And I don’t know... I feel like an ingrate.”
He tilts his head to get a better view of the house. “I don’t know, Mac. There’s a house, and there’s a home. That doesn’t look particularly homey to me.”
“But I shouldn’t complain. I’ve lived my life completely cosseted. I take the money my parents give me and have never needed to support myself. What kind of person does that make me?”
