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Oatmeal and I have a tempestuous relationship. Somehow, every time I attempt to make it, the fucker revolts and turns to glop. Not Gray’s oatmeal. It’s like the pinnacle of oatmeal, what all little oats hope to one day become: fucking delicious and nutritious—Gray’s words, not mine.
Truth is, I knew I was better last night. I think Gray knew, as well. We’d both ignored it. He’d fussed over me, carrying me to the couch and wrapping me up in a blanket. And when we’d settled into bed, there had been a moment of awkward silence, our bodies going tense in the cool darkness, before he pulled me close in that way of his—possessive yet tender.
“Try to get some sleep,” he’d murmured gruffly. I hadn’t been sure if he’d been talking to me or to himself.
I’d pretended to still be that sick, fitful woman who needed comfort, not the one who relished the feel of his hard body pressed against mine, the needy girl who wanted to turn in his arms and explore those fine, firm muscles. At length.
I never pegged Gray as the nurturing type. Which isn’t fair. Gray is a kind man. And the more I know of him, the more I understand that he goes out of his way to make others happy. But, in my admittedly limited experience, most men don’t do well with illness. It makes my chest hurt to imagine a younger Gray caring for his dying mother.
With a sigh, I sit up, and my head doesn’t spin. Yep. Better. All of Gray’s attentive care will end today. I can’t hide my good health any longer. It would be wrong and weird.
Reluctantly, I head to the bathroom. His toothbrush sits next to mine, the sum total of the personal effects he’s brought with him. Not enough to signify. I try to ignore that as I brush my teeth.
With slow movements, I take a shower and scrub myself clean. The hot water is bliss, highlighting my new and improved state. Which is depressing. It had been a mistake to let Gray stay so close. I’m used to him now.
When I finally leave my bedroom, dressed and bright-eyed, my heart is a lead weight in my chest.
Gray is setting down bowls of oatmeal, but he stills when I walk in. We stare at each other for a long moment, neither of us moving.
“All better now,” I tell him.
He nods, his gaze slipping away to focus on setting down a pair of spoons. “I figured.”
It’s as if he is drifting away, like a boat that’s had its line cut. His gaze turns inward as he scratches the back of his head, the action bunching his biceps.
“I’m glad you’re well again.”
“Yeah.” I’m not glad at all.
Gray
I miss Ivy. I started missing her before I’d even left her house. My time being her protector was up. I’d known the night before that she was better, and that she’d no longer need me to take care of her. I’d stayed over anyway because it had been my last chance to hold her as she slept. Fuck, it wasn’t smart to stay with her every night. She is under my skin now. Well, more so than before.
I refuse to rub the ache in my chest as I cross the small quad, heading for the gym. Taking care of Ivy was eye-opening. Sure, I’d gotten flashbacks of looking after my mom, memories that made my throat tight and my stomach hurt. But my focus soon zeroed in on Ivy.
That was all I needed. Making Ivy feel better satisfied me in a strangely quiet way, as if I’d finally found the place where I needed to be. I can see myself watching over her for a lifetime. And it had felt nice. Homey.
Only, sometimes my gaze had wandered down to those endless legs of hers, and I’d found myself wondering what it would feel like to run a pattern along them with my tongue.
Fuck.
I’d planned to make a move on Ivy. But she’d given me a hardy “You’re the best friend a girl could have” as we’d parted this morning. Right. Because we’re buds. Best buds. Which is both a gift and a curse.
We’re getting too close. The danger of my heart being annihilated is real. Ivy plans to live in another country. How am I supposed to give her up? I think of how I’d held her when she was hurting. I’d been content with that. Until she pulled the rug out from under me.
I love you, Gray. Sweet words, spoken out of friendly gratitude, I know. And yet they’d crashed into me like a blindside hit, knocking the air from my lungs and making my chest squeeze tight.
I don’t know what to do with this feeling. It’s equal parts longing—yes, fucking longing—and outrage. I want to hear those words again. It’s a kick in the pants to realize that I want to be loved, like I’m worth something to someone. Not for what I can do for them, but just for me. And outrage, because how dare Ivy say those words to me? Three little words, and she’s made me all sorts of needy. My anger is plain ridiculous and irrational.
But there you go. I’m now Irrational Gray. Confused and Grumpy Gray. Horny as All Fuck Gray. Nice to meet you.
Eventually I lose myself to the day, working out, practice, lunch, more working out, until my body is battered and sore and just maybe I will get so tired that I can simply crash without thought.
But all routes lead to Ivy. And no matter how hard I try, I find myself running that pattern over again, heading to her house as if it’s the end zone.
Chapter 15
Ivy
