“Sweetheart.”
“Look, I really am sorry that happened at the bar. That sucks, and I hate that you had to deal with it. But we’ve had registry shopping on the calendar for months. Olivia and Gracie are here. This is important, Grey. Couldn’t, I don’t know, Ford or that sommelier who owns the bar have handled the situation over there? Why do you always have to be the one on the ground?”
“Because.” He lets out a breath. “This is my company, Julia. I have a lot of people depending on me to get these things right.”
I swallow. Let a beat of uncomfortable silence bloom between us.
“Grey, I’m disappointed. And embarrassed. And angry.”
“I know, I know, and that’s completely fair. I deserve all that and then some. I’m sorry, Julia. Let me make it up to you. Please. I swear I’ll make this right.”
I swallow. “Just like you swore to show up today?”
He lets out a breath. “I deserve that. I mean it this time. Please. Give me another chance. I’ve been sitting on something exciting for a bit—been waiting for the right time to share it.”
“Share what?”
“You’ll see. Can I pick you up in a bit? Your place?”
My turn to let out a breath. I cross one arm over my chest. Glance at Olivia and Gracie. They’re pretending not to listen to my call.
I think about that baseball bat in Gracie’s trunk.
I think about Greyson dancing at Olivia’s wedding.
“Please, Julia,” Grey is saying. “I feel like a fucking idiot. I messed up. I know that. But I want to show you that I am doing my homework—I am doing stuff to get ready for Charlie Brown’s arrival.”
“All right,” I say. “I should be home in an hour or so.”
“I’ll be there.”
Greyson is waiting for me in the driveway when I get back into town. When I climb into his truck, I notice he kind of looks like hell. His hair, usually neatly combed, is a mess. There are purple thumbprints underneath his eyes.
My anger softens. He’s wiped. We both are.
“Sweetheart.” He glances at me. “I really am sorry. If there was any other way…you know I would’ve been there with you. Did y’all pick out some good stuff?”
I reach back for my seatbelt and look down to buckle it. “We did.”
“You all right?” he asks, putting a hand on my leg.
I look back up. “I understand you got stuck dealing with an emergency this morning. But I’m struggling with you, Grey. I feel like I’m doing the lion’s share of the work for this baby.”
“I’ve been doing work, too.” He takes my hand and runs his thumb across my knuckles. “Can I show you how?”
I give his hand a squeeze. “I’d like that.”
He tangles his fingers with mine as we make a right onto East Bay Street. We pass the famous Rainbow Row on the right, its colors vibrant against the grey February afternoon.
We continue on as East Bay Street turns into East Battery. Charleston Harbor stretches out to our left, the murky green water smooth as glass.
We don’t go far. Grey slows, pulling into a gravel driveway immediately off South Battery. There’s a For Sale sign on the wrought iron fence that encloses the property.
My heart begins to pound.
The drive winds under a canopy of palm trees. A gorgeous—and very large—house comes into view. It’s red brick with black shutters. Two stories, very classic Georgian design. It’s shiny and perfect. Too perfect. It’s brand new, as evidenced by the full dumpster by the garage and the barren landscaping. The yard is big but bare.
Grey puts the truck into park in front of the house. There’s a woman in a long skirt and sweater at the glossy front door. She smiles and waves.
I feel queasy all of a sudden.
“Grey,” I say, staring at the house. “What’s going on?”
He cuts the engine. Untangles our fingers and unbuckles his seat belt.
He’s grinning.
“You’ll see.”
I follow him to the door, where he introduces me to his real estate agent, Vanessa.
I swear my heart is going to beat its way through my chest.
A creeping realization comes over me.
Grey wants to buy this house. For us.
Our family.
I don’t say a word as Vanessa takes us on a tour of many thousands of square feet. The place smells new, like paint. More bedrooms and bathrooms than I can count, everything white and clean and trendy. The kitchen is enormous, with two islands and a scullery.
It’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong. But it has no character. No story to tell.
I love properties that are a little rough around the edges, like Luke’s barn. Properties that I’m able to transform with my own touch, my own style.
When I flip through a sales brochure I find on the kitchen counter and see the asking price, my eyes almost pop out of my head.
It hits me.
This.
This is Grey’s way of being an equal partner. By spending obscene amounts of money on things I didn’t ask for. Things we certainly don’t need.
“So,” Vanessa says brightly. “What do y’all think?”
I look up to see Grey’s eyes glued to my face. They’ve got a hopeful gleam in them.
“Do you like it?” he asks. “I thought you’d appreciate the amazing architectural details. I know it’s new, but everything is top of the line, and the house is built with Charleston’s history and architecture in mind. The exterior, the wood doors, the brass hardware. The molding. I’ve been searching high and low for just the right house. A family place. You know, with a yard and stuff. Neither of our places have anywhere for the baby to play.”
“Grey,” I say. Heart breaking a little.
He’s trying to be sweet. Thoughtful.
But this is wrong.
This isn’t me. This house—this big, insanely perfect house—is not us. This is not the life I wanted or asked for.
It’s a poor substitute for what this baby and I really need—for Greyson to be around. Be present.
He’s Christian Grey-ing me again. Only not in a good way this time.
“Do you mind giving us a minute?” I ask Vanessa.
She smiles. “Sure. Y’all take your time.”
She heads out of the kitchen, leaving Grey and I alone.
“You don’t like it,” he says matter-of-factly.
I take a breath. Look away. Look back at him. Look down at the brochure.
“Don’t get me wrong, this is a dream house,” I say. “It’s—Jesus, Grey, it’s like something out of a magazine. Everything is new. The location is A-plus. It’s a huge lot for this part of town.”
He smiles. A tight thing.
“But.”
“For starters, it’s a whole comma out of my price range.”
“I’d take care of it.”
My pulse skips a beat.
“You don’t have to do that. In fact, I don’t want you to. I want to contribute at least something to a huge purchase like this.”
“What if I want to buy this house for you?”
“I appreciate the sentiment. And I see what you’re trying to do here. But when you said you wanted only the best for me and the baby—Grey, you don’t have to buy a house like this to prove that. You can just stick to ice cream and I’d be perfectly content.” I put a hand on my belly. “Same with Charlie Brown. I mean, I’ve been contemplating where she’d sleep. Like whether or not we’d need two cribs, one at my place and one at yours. Now you just want to up and buy a house without ever asking me if I want to move in with you?”
Slipping his hands into the pockets of his slacks, he takes a step toward me. “Do you not want to live with me?”
I blink. “I mean, I’d definitely consider it. Yeah. But we’ve never really talked about it before.”
“What if I want to treat y’all? I have money, Julia. I work hard to be able to afford stuff like this. Let me treat you. Buying this house�
��having you move in with me—it’s my way of contributing. My way of making you feel safe and taken care of.”
I take a sharp breath. My eyes prick with tears. Shit.
Shit shit shit.
“I love how safe you make me feel,” I say. “But you can take care of me by showing up. You’d make me feel taken care of if you helped me with the registry. If you did the research and read those books you promised you would. I needed you this morning, Greyson. I’m going to need you to be around when this baby comes. More than I’ll ever need a house like this.”
His brows curve upward.
“Please don’t cry,” he says, taking his hands out of his pockets. “I just—this is all I know, baby. This is what I do. I provide. I’m really good at it.”
“You are. I see how you look after Ford. I see that you want to take care of Bryce. But I think you and I have different opinions about what being an equal partner means. This”—I motion to the house—“isn’t what I meant when I said I wanted you to contribute. I’ve told you many times that I’m perfectly capable of providing for myself. This baby, too. Of course your financial contribution is an important piece of the co-parenting puzzle. But so is showing up. And you’re not doing that enough, Grey.”
“I disagree,” he says. “How is this not showing up? I’ve spent a lot of time trying to find this place. Real estate in this town is a tricky endeavor—it’s tough finding just the right spot. I’m putting in the time, Julia. Just in my own way.”
My frustration gathers in a lump in my throat. “You’re not listening.”
“And neither are you!” he says, throwing up his arms. “I have a plan here. It’s not like I’m flying by the seat of my pants. I’m intentional in all that I do, especially when it comes to you and the baby. I think about y’all all the time. This house is exhibit A. The yard, the space. The location. We’d be close to family and friends—the people who are going to help us out the most when Charlie Brown comes. Why can’t you see that?”
“Why can’t you see that there’s got to be a balance? This house…”
He looks at me. “What? What about this house I spent months searching for?”
Swallowing, I say, “I appreciate the effort, Grey. But it’s not my dream house. Not by a long shot. If you were listening, you’d know that. It’s too new. Too perfect. And way too big. I imagine you’d have to keep working like you do now to afford it. Working all the time, I mean. Yeah, we’d have this big fabulous family home, but we’d never see you. You wouldn’t be around to help, which would mean most of the work of raising this kid would fall on my lap. It’s already happening, and it’s not fair. I work too. I want to keep working—I love my job. But if you don’t start showing up, my life is going to turn into a living hell once this baby comes. I’ll be stuck trying to do it all. All by myself. All the time. I want you around more, Grey. I need you. I love you, and I love spending time with you. But you made me a promise, and if you can’t keep it…”
Greyson takes another step forward.
“What am I supposed to do, Julia? You know full well I don’t work a typical nine to five job. To be honest, I don’t think you’d be into me if I did.”
“Ouch.” I pull back, stung. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re not interested in normal. You’re bored by the usual. You’re passionate and fiery and different, and you’re drawn to other people who are the same. My passion is my work. Does it take up a lot of my time? Yes. But I love my job, too. I worked really fucking hard to get where I am. I can’t just walk away. Not after I’ve come so far.”
“You’ve come so far,” I reply steadily. “How much further do you need to go? What are you trying to prove, Grey? What are you really trying to buy here?”
He pulls back, pink creeping up his neck onto his face. “What do I want to buy? I want to buy you a house that has a yard with enough room for a swing set. A house that our family can grow into. That’s what. Total dick move, I know.”
I shake my head, my anger growing. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. You have my love. I love you. I trust you. I’m offended you’d ever think I could be bought like this.”
His eyes search mine. Anger’s in them now too, along with the hurt.
I’ve hit a nerve.
“I’m not trying to buy you,” he says, nostrils flaring as he ducks to get in my face. “I’m trying to do something nice. If you don’t like the damn house, then fuck it. We don’t have to buy it. We can just tell our kid to go play in the street in front of your garage apartment or something. I’m sure that’s safe.”
I’m breathing hard. Blinking back tears.
“Don’t be stupid,” I bite out. “Yes, we need a place that’s better suited to kids. But we don’t need a place that’s this big or this new or this expensive. We need one that we can afford without you working eighty hour weeks.”
“Jesus Christ, Julia, what do you want me to do?”
“Our lives are about to change, Grey. Our priorities should, too. Work is important. But it’s not everything. It can’t be.” I blink. Hard. “Please. Meet me halfway here.”
He scoffs. “Is buying our family a house not meeting you halfway? Is that not showing you I’m committed to you and this baby?”
“It’s showing me your priorities are fucked up. You don’t contribute by throwing money at us. You do it by participating in our lives in a meaningful, consistent way. You show up to doctor appointments on time. You spend Saturdays in bed with me instead of in meetings. You don’t blow off important dates. You say you’ve searched for a house for months. But have you even looked at your paternity leave yet? Are you planning on taking any? You keep saying we’ll figure things out, but I think that’s just your way of blowing me off. I’ve spent hours in meetings with HR and my bosses and mentors trying to figure out how to make my maternity leave work without damaging my career. Days coordinating appointments and ultrasounds and reading books. Days researching registries and working on budgets for when I go on leave. And what have you done? Honestly, Grey, tell me what heavy lifting you’ve done for this baby.”
He lets out a growl and spears a hand through his hair. Looks away.
“I work. A lot. In a very stressful environment. You can’t tell me that’s not heavy lifting.”
I just shake my head. “It is. Of course it is. I know you work hard. That’s not the point I’m trying to make. I’m trying to say working like that isn’t the right kind of lifting. Working like that is exactly what’s keeping you from being the partner I need. You’re stressed. Worn out. Buying this place is only going to make that worse. Do you see what I’m saying here, Grey? Do you understand where I’m coming from?”
He shoots me a look. It’s murderous. Angry.
“The money I make won’t just pay for a house like this. It can pay for childcare. College. Whatever this baby needs, I can give them.”
“Except quality time. That, you can’t spare.”
Yeah. Think it’s safe to say he doesn’t see. He’s too angry. Too entrenched in old ways of thinking, maybe.
All I know is I can’t reach him. Which fills me with a crushing sense of loss.
“You don’t want the house,” he grunts. “I get it.”
He turns and stalks out of the kitchen.
Chapter Thirty
Greyson
The space between Julia and I rings with silence on the drive home.
I’m worried I’ll say shit I’ll regret if I open my mouth. I already did enough damage back at that house.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know she’s right. But so am I. I worked really hard to find that house. Time spent on the phone with Vanessa, touring properties, thinking about what my family will need going forward.
I’m too wound up, maybe. It’s not like I didn’t want to go registry shopping with Julia. Hell, I would’ve loved to have spent the morning with her. Way more than I enjoyed dealing with cops and crises and all the other un-fun crap tha
t comes with opening a new bar or restaurant, that’s for damn sure.
But who else was supposed to deal with that stuff? What was I supposed to do? Tell my business partners—my investors—hey, sorry, can’t open the bar we’ve all poured tons of money into because someone stole our stock but I couldn’t handle it because I had to run out to buy some baby bottles we won’t need for another four months?
I’ve been the point person on this project since the bar’s inception. I had to be there. It would’ve been irresponsible to leave. Not to mention stupid.
“Drop me off at my place,” Julia says. Eyes glued to the passenger side window.
I adjust my hand on the steering wheel.
Great. Now she’s going to ice me out.
Goddamn it.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
A voice inside my head tells me to pull over and put the car in park and fix this. Apologize. Try to figure out what the fuck’s going on with me together by walking through what just happened.
But I can’t.
I know I’m fucking up. But because I’m apparently a pathological masochist, I can’t stop.
Instead, my throat tightens with anger. Thoughts spinning out of control. Why do I always have to be the one that does all the talking? Why am I the one who has to do all the explaining?
I pull into her driveway.
“I’m sorry that turned into a fight,” I manage.
She looks at me. Finally.
“That’s what you’re sorry for?”
“Julia. I’m trying—”
“That doesn’t mean anything to me anymore.” She shakes her head. “I’m done with your trying.”
“Jules—”
“Listen. Remember when you told me you felt this pressure to be the perfect son? The perfect partner? I think you still feel that pressure, even though I’ve told you countless times you don’t need to be perfect for me to love you. I just want you here. I just want you. Not your money. Not the prestige that comes with who you are and the name of your firm and all the fancy restaurants and bars you’re involved with. I just want you to be around. Period. That’s all I’m asking for, Grey.”
Southern Gentleman: A Charleston Heat Novel Page 23
