It’s him. The guy I bumped into in the hallway this morning… The amazingly sexy man with an undesirable attitude.
He grabs a hand towel from nearby and begins wiping his face, luckily not looking in my direction. As he continues to towel himself off, he suggests waiting on him on the screened porch or in the house. This time it’s me who takes the lead, booking it from the barn like I’m running from my own imminent demise, self-preservation kicking in with Lyra right on my heels.
“Do you want to hang out in the den since it’s a little chilly… Or we can hang out on the porch if you want. There’s a space heater out there anyways and throw blankets,” she suggests, nearly breathless from walking at my quickened pace.
“It’s up to you, whatever you want to do,” I passively tell her, way too stunned to make such decisions.
“How about we go to the den, we can watch TV or something.”
“Cool with me,” I reply in approval.
A few moments of absolution does sound nice.
As we enter through the door, a buzzing from my back pocket causes me to pause, and I discover a text from my mom checking up on me. Tapping out my response to inform her I’m okay, I alert her that I’ll be a little longer than expected but that I still won’t be late. I’m surprised she didn’t walk over to check on me as soon as I left. Sometimes she’s super clingy like that.
Lyra and I both take a seat in the den. She on the larger couch, and me on the loveseat. We end up playing a game of Battleship and simultaneously watching the E! Hollywood News show about all of the biggest stars in Hollywood and their latest scandals.
“C-4,” I call out. She narrows her eyes at me in false irritation.
“Hit,” she grumbles, placing a peg into her ship. Her attention turns to the TV momentarily becoming disinterested in our childish game as the latest Celebrity news plays across the screen.
“I wonder how much of this is actually true?” Lyra asks, rhetorically of course.
“Probably… none of it. It’s all for publicity, I suspect. Except for all the stuff about that blonde chick that used to be a Country singer that sings Pop now and dates all the guys. I bet anything having to do with dating a dude or breaking up with one is true.” We both bust out laughing at the same time, losing interest in the TV show after a few minutes.
“B-2,” she states.
“Miss.” My eyes flit from her face slumping with disappointment, to admiring the bookshelves again.
“I knew you liked the romance novels, but I didn’t know you collected them,” I joke. Good-naturedly, a lopsided smile overtakes her dainty features.
“Mom collected them. I started reading them with the idea that, by touching and reading the same pages she had once enjoyed, I’d be tethering myself to her memory. It created a sense of proximity to her more than anything. Romance, smutty to be precise, was her favorite genre, she was an incorrigible romantic and was always starting a new one. I still don’t think my dad or brother know what’s in them, or they’d likely have a fit. Even though the cover of a lot of them are pretty raunchy…”
The advancing trudging of boots in our direction make us both whip our heads around. Lyra looks at me, her eyes nearly perfect orbs, stressing over the heat from almost being caught discussing her risqué reading material. Peals of laughter ring from my lips, unable to help myself from her owlish expression.
“What’s so funny in here,” her deeply enticing brother asks as he rounds the corner into view. He appears freshly showered, hair still damp. The scent of soapy masculinity surrounding his presence. I never knew someone could smell so good.
More handsome than sin, my mind complains out of nowhere.
“Ah nothing, just girl talk,” Lyra states. He looks to her raising an eyebrow.
“So where’s the grub at, I’ve worked up an appetite out there,” he discloses stretching his arms above his head. A small strip of skin is revealed as his cotton T-shirt treks upward, and my eyes can’t help but follow the path of his shirt hem. He looks over at me as he lets his arms drop, our eyes meeting, and I think of how much I aggravated him earlier in the day by refusing to apologize after our little tiff.
I smirk, because there’s not really anything else I can do, but mostly just because I like being a smartass. With great satisfaction, I get to witness the dawning realization passing over his face, as to just who his sister’s friend is. His eyes, appearing ochre in the lighting, narrow in my direction.
And just like it did when I first met him a mere few hours ago, my arms prickle as if the air is too cold to bear, tricking my brain into believing the temperature really is cold. So much so, that my nipples pebble, which then reminds me way too late to do anything about it, that I changed out of my bra and into a thin yoga bra when I got home from school.
Frantically, I glance down at my breasts to consult whether or not it’s noticeable, praying to the heavens that my predicament is concealed. And… nope. You can definitely tell.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
My dumbass has a white tank-top on underneath my cardigan. His eyes track the direction of mine, and now he’s staring at my breasts as well.
Feverish under his gaze, I wrap my cardigan tightly around my torso to shield myself from his unyielding expression, hard, and definitely satisfied by my unease. The fact that I didn’t even consider my attire before coming into a house where men are present, shows my lack of experience in dealing with these situations.
As a matter of fact, this is the first time I’ve ever been over to someone else’s home, now that I think about it.
The movement of wrapping myself up, effectively breaks his trance.
“Well if it isn’t our graceful new neighbor,” he attempts to provoke, amused by his description of myself. “You didn’t say that our new neighbor was who your friend is, I might not have come to dinner,” he sounds bored, giving a pointed look in Lyra’s direction.
She looks back at him questioning, and slightly horrified at his rudeness, clueless to his aversion to me.
Oh, so he knows I’m his neighbor already…
He must have been the driver of the jeep who refused to return my wave.
But, did he know when I bumped into him this morning that I was his tenant?
“Well if it isn’t Mr. Not-So-Southern-Gentleman,” is sadly the best response I can come up with while my mind is occupied with these other questions.
Lyra’s eyes are now darting back and forth between us, clearly not understanding the dynamics of the situation.
“Maybe if I would have known you were the ‘brother’ in this situation I wouldn’t have came over here at all. I’d hate for you to misconstrue my bringing some home-cooked food over here to Lyra, as an apology to you.”
“Wait a minute,” Lyra demands, her hand slicing the air. “Do ya’ll know each other?”
I turn to her, quick to give an answer before her Brother can.
“No. Only… I ran into him on my way to first period and he had to help me catch my balance and pick up the stuff I dropped on the floor. Which was really nice until he started being a cocky and offensive prick. So no, we don’t know each other except for that incident, I don’t even know his name as he never gave it,” I answer with a gleam in my eye. My theory here is to explain myself first and make him look at fault.
He surprises me by not giving a smartass retort, but instead simply lifting his shoulder. An agreement of sorts that basically declares, “What she said,” as if it’s no big deal. As if it was his acceptable, every day behavior.
Cocky ass.
Lyra glares at her brother, and I smile inside, refraining from the victory dance I really want to do, at having achieved my goal of getting her on my side.
“I’m so sorry my brother was rude to you. He’s really not as bad as he tries to make himself out to be. How about I introduce the two of you, and we let bygones be bygones,” she insists.
He and I both continue acting like petulant children, saying nothing a
nd making no motions to agree, nearly ready to tear each other apart by death-glare. That doesn’t deter Lyra, however. She ignores us, acting like she doesn’t notice our crap attitudes.
“This is my older brother, Gray. And Gray, this is my new friend Sloane,” she introduces, motioning back and forth between the two of us.
Gray: The perfect name for such a stormy personality, I think to myself while attempting unsuccessfully to hide my amusement. He cocks his head to the side when he catches my little lip-twitch in response to his name.
“You’ve apparently already caught on that Sloane and her mother are the ones renting the house on the other end of our property, so you better start getting used to the idea of being cordial at least ‘cause I figure you’ll be around her fairly often. Besides, I know you’re smart enough to not be the type of landlord who runs his tenants off,” she adds, winking at me in collusion.
“Riiiight. Let’s just head to the dinner table,” Gray grumbles, and I’m standing here wondering if he’s this grumpy all the time, or if it’s just because of me.
The three of us make our way to the dining table, where Lyra has three place settings awaiting us. She gets to work heating the soup, while I attempt to help by hunting down a pot holder and removing the cake of cornbread from the oven. After pilfering through all the cabinets, I find a large plate to slide the cornbread onto.
All the while, Gray waits patiently at the dinner table.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into him, he’s had a bad day or something. He usually isn’t so glum. Typically, he’d be trying his best to make some stupid joke to get me to laugh,” she apologizes, speaking low so that he won’t pick-up on the conversation.
“Everyone is allowed to have an off-day I guess.”
The microwave dings, alerting us that the soup is done warming. As I cross over into the dining area, I can’t help but to check Gray out. Again. It doesn’t matter how much he irritates me, or how rude I think he acts.
His face is regal yet rugged. Beautiful, yet his nose is slightly, and I mean barely at all, crooked as if he’s had it broken before. And his eyes.
My God, those eyes.
It’s not just the color or the thick, long lashes, but the fact that there’s a story behind them. Cheesy? Definitely. But his eyes hold a story, a mystery if I had to guess, and I need to be the one who finally solves it.
Funny, because I’m the one who has a whole backstory, a preface containing so many hidden facets, that they could bubble over into the present at any given moment.
The look he gives in return is neither hostile nor inviting, but creates the appearance of someone who is trying to figure me out, as if I’m some complex puzzle.
Kind of what I’m feeling about him, maybe, possibly?
The notion is both satisfying and incomprehensible as I take the seat across from him.
“So what’s for dinner?” he finally asks, laying one hand on the table and resting the other on his knee patiently.
“One of my favorites. Cabbage Beef soup and cornbread. I was inspired by the chill in the air this morning,” I inform him, staring him dead in the eye and daring him to say something negative about my food.
“Don’t think I’ve had it, but it looks good. Alright, who’s going to say the Blessing?” he asks looking from me to his sister.
This is something I’m definitely not used to.
I can think of maybe three times in my whole life, when I’ve been at a table where thanks was given prior to eating. The most notable being at my Grandma’s house during the only Thanksgiving dinner I remember having there, a mere few weeks before she passed away. I must have been five years old at the time, so I’m surprised I can even remember.
My mind immediately calls forward images long-since locked away: Silvery-white hair swooped back into the quintessential French-twist, her long elegant fingers, and her kind gray eyes. I can’t remember all of how she looked, but those are the details that have stuck through the years. Tranquility envelops me, remembering her, but I also recall the emotions of a five-year-old girl. That instinctual essence of safety the younger me had once felt at her Grandmother’s house.
Glancing in Lyra’s direction, I note the look of uncertainty that I’m guessing is caused by fear of my reception due to her brother’s prayer proposal. I smile and nod my head to let her know I’m cool with it.
“How ‘bout you do it this time, big bro,” Lyra suggests.
We bow our heads and Gray begins. He thanks God for his family and for the family that is no longer with them. He surprises me by keeping in mind the Hudson’s and their loved ones who have suffered loss because of the accident his father was involved in, and that they may one day forgive his father…
“and thank you Lord for this food and the hands that have prepared it… and for the new friend my sister has made. Amen,” he concludes, then adds “ladies first,” as he motions toward the bowl in the center of the table.
“Amen,” I whisper, awed by him having included me in his prayer, and rightly so considering all the bickering between the two of us today.
Grabbing the handle of the ladle, Lyra begins serving herself the soup before cutting a piece of cornbread. I follow her, and Gray goes last, only after making sure we’ve gotten plenty. As the first bite enters Lyra’s mouth, she looks over at me appreciatively, her eyes fluttering closed for a brief second.
“Oh my gracious! This is so good! Thank you for bringing this over, Sloane. It was very thoughtful of you. Mmm. And, you’re going to have to give me the recipe because soup season is nearly upon us,” she adds.
“It’s so simple you don’t even need a recipe, but I definitely will,” I tell her. She thanks me then turns in the direction of her brother, who has nearly scarfed down his entire bowl at this point.
“Gray, wasn’t it nice of Sloane to bring this by,” she attempts to persuade him into showing me appreciation.
“Mmmm…” he nods in agreement, mouth full and unable to do so much as speak. It would appear he’s enjoying my cooking so much that he isn’t even taking a break in between bites to converse, and in actuality, that fact alone is more of a compliment than him thanking me verbally.
Lyra goes about illuminating us with news of an upcoming Fall Festival in town, and unintentionally, I drown out her words after a minute or so.
I’m intrigued by the immense pride that overtakes me as I continue to regard this mystery of a man in front of me.
I’m intrigued by the way his lips curl around the spoon as he pulls it from his mouth, and I’m intrigued at the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he laughs at something his sister says.
I fixate my attention on his glistening lips as he takes a sip of sweet tea, and then replaces the glass back onto the table. Slowly dragging my tongue across my own lips in unprocessed physical reaction, I stare at his, wishing I could taste them. The sweetness of the tea, mixed with his own unique flavor. An organic need I was unconscious of before today, one I’m unfamiliar with, but fully intent on rectifying.
His dabbing at his mouth with a napkin breaks me from my trance.
“Sloane?” Lyra’s voice interrupts my wayward thoughts. Clearly she’s asked me something and my dumbass is caught staring at her brother once again, clueless over the current conversation.
“Uh, yeah?” I ask, because I’ve no idea what the topic of the question was. Gray smirks from across the table as if he knew I was daydreaming about him, but is surprisingly still gracious enough to help me out.
“Lyra wants to know if you’ll go to the Fall Festival with her in a few weeks,” he hints, not even trying to hide his amusement. I give a curt nod of the head in his general direction, but my brain is screaming THANK YOU as if he’ll somehow intercept the message or something.
“That would be awesome. I’ve never been to one before. We move around so often I don’t really get to enjoy that many things,” I reply.
“Why do ya’ll move around a lot?” Gray is the
one to ask.
“Well…” I begin, giving myself time to review our cover story in my head before putting it into words. “My Mom travels a lot for her job, she does some type of writing and blogging work that she attempts to keep pretty separate from her family life. As soon as I’m in her presence,” I snap my fingers, “she doesn’t let work interfere at all, so I don’t actually know that much about it other than it allots plenty of free-time for me, and we get to experience a lot of sight-seeing. All I know for sure is that she has to move around for fresh writing prompts and experiences,” I inform them, attempting to be vague and sound confident in my answers at the same time.
“But it seems like you’ll be staying here a while though, since she’s signed a rental agreement for a minimum of six months.” Gray states, or questions, I’m not particularly sure.
“Yep, for some reason she intends to hunker down here for a while, explore and such. I’ll be finishing up the entire school year here before we move this time.”
Mulling the information over, he takes another bite of his food. Before any additional invasive questions can be asked, I inform them that Mom wants me back home.
“Let me wash your bowl up for you,” Lyra comments jumping quickly to her feet, ever the perfect hostess.
“No don’t worry about it, finish it off and I’ll get it from you another time,” I assure her. As she thanks me, her expression sparks with an idea.
“Wait just a second before you leave, I’m going to just run upstairs to my room and grab my phone so we can exchange numbers,” she orders in such I way that I can’t really disagree as she hurries from the table.
And now, I’m left alone with Gray.
I may have been smug for most of the afternoon, but I’m suddenly illustrating the opposite of poised, more closely embodying an animal trapped in a corner with nowhere to run. Undeniably awkward silence ensues, making each passing second seem like hours. My eyes scan the room, pretending to be suddenly interested in my surroundings.
The wallpaper.
The nature painting on the wall.
Love on the Run Page 6
