by Eva Charles
“Discreet. What you’re describing is nothing more than us sneaking around while they look the other way. But I get it. We’ll all pretend that I’m virtuous and that you’re a gentleman.”
He smiles, but it takes some effort. “I think the expectation is that you’re virtuous. No one expects me to be a gentleman. But a lot of pretending goes on in the Amadi royal family. It gets old after a while, but you’ll have to remain respectful and play along the entire time.”
I’m not worried about that. The one thing I can do is pretend.
I watch while he goes behind the bar and fixes himself a drink. He’s dragging. It’s not like him. “Did you eat?” I ask.
He hesitates for a few seconds, and nods.
“Sending me cheesecake isn’t going to make up for leaving me alone every night,” I tell him, pointedly. “There are things I can do downstairs. The mission is gearing up, and Wildflower is a full-time gig—you could use the help. I worked at the club, remember?”
Gray takes a long swig of bourbon, then rubs the heel of his palm over his jaw. “Beginning tomorrow you’ll have plenty on your plate.” He disappears into the foyer and comes back with a sheet of paper, hands it to me, and walks away.
“What’s this?”
“It’s your schedule for the next few days. I emailed you a copy too. I didn’t know which calendar program you prefer.”
Calendar program? That would be the one hanging in my kitchen, inside the pantry door. I read through the schedule, becoming more and more agitated. “Yoga with Mel at five thirty a.m.? You’re fucking kidding me. That’s when I run.”
“It’ll be good for you. And more challenging than you think. Mel’s a hard-ass.”
I have to calm down and try to reason with him. If we get into an argument, chances are I’m going to lose. “I need that run, Gray. Especially now. Need it more than my next breath.” What I don’t need is yoga. I leave that part out because it doesn’t help my case at all.
“What you need is to broaden your horizons.”
“I’ll agree to the rest of the schedule, but I need the run.” My voice is shaky. “You’ve turned my world upside down in the matter of a week. Don’t make me give up that too.”
“I’ll take responsibility for part of it, but you agreed to have your world turned upside down.”
I don’t respond. A part of me is shaken by how important the run has become. No, not important—necessary. The thought of not running is painful. It’s become an addiction. A healthy addiction, I remind myself.
“What happens if you’re injured or stuck someplace where there’s no place to run,” he asks calmly, “like on a boat, or on a plane, or in a palace where women aren’t free to do as they please? You’ll need another outlet. Otherwise you’ll be no good to yourself or to the mission.”
I’m conflicted. I know he’s right, but I also know that I’ll be a mess without the outlet and the grounding that the early morning run provides.
“I’ll help you find other ways to get to the same place,” he continues. “This is going to be a challenge. For both of us. We talked about it at the beach. Nothing’s changed now that we’re back in the city. If anything, it’s going to be harder while we prepare.” My phone slides off the edge of the sofa, and he picks it up and places it near me, giving my hand a quick squeeze. “Normally I would tell you to enjoy the ride, but in this case, I think you need to keep your focus on the endgame.”
“I’m a simple girl from Mississippi,” I admit candidly. It’s been eating at me all evening. “You said so yourself. I’m never going to be royalty or a high-society type. It’s not baked in. What if the princess doesn’t want to have anything to do with me? What happens then?”
Gray swoops me off the sofa, and deposits me on the bar in the corner of the room. It happens so fast I barely have time to protest.
“Listen to me. You’re a smart, well-educated, beautiful woman.” We’re eye to eye and he doesn’t let me look away. “You’re not a princess. You’re a damn queen. A badass queen. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel less than that.”
I don’t know where to look, so I glance down at my toes. There’s a pedicure on my schedule for tomorrow. Good thing, too.
“What is it?” he asks, lifting my chin.
I push his hand away. “Nothing,”
“I’ve told you, I’m not a mind reader.” He nudges my thighs apart and steps between them, his hands resting low on my hips. “I want to know what you’re thinking.”
“I need some fresh polish on my toes.”
His eyes are steady and probing. He’s not buying any of it. I don’t know where to begin—or even if I want to talk about it at all. But I force myself, because of all those faces on the cards. Because we have to work through our challenges if we’re going to be successful—for them.
“You—make me feel less than that.” The words come slowly. It takes some doing to pry them loose, but I’m determined. “Not when I worked for you—but—when you talk about me being a simple girl from Mississippi, or learning how to fight in a trailer park. Those comments cut to the quick. Not because they’re a lie, or even because I’m ashamed of my roots, but because you use them as a weapon to hurt me.”
He blinks a few times, his long, dark lashes casting spiky shadows on his cheeks. There’s sorrow in his face. It’s what I’ve always adored about him, even from the beginning. He feels empathy. He knows compassion. When I reach out to smooth a worry line with my fingertips, Gray takes my hand and brings it to his lips.
“Say the rest. I need to hear it. All of it.” His voice is low and rough, like it gets when there’s too much emotion stirring inside him.
I’m not sure I want to say the rest. I don’t know how to share it with him in a way that he’ll understand. The feelings are right there, on the surface. I can touch them. But the words—searching for the right words is like playing a matching game. At the beginning, there are so many cards and it’s only sheer luck when you turn over a match. That’s how this seems. I’m holding the feeling card, but I can’t find the word to match.
“Hey,” he says softly.
His gaze is alert and steady, and I know he’s not going to let me off the hook. And maybe I don’t want to be let off the hook. I sigh, and somehow find the words to pair with my fears and insecurities.
“I’ve worked hard to trim the scraggly edges and shed the outer layers, because it makes people more accepting—more comfortable around me. But it’s who I am inside. A simple girl from the poorest corner of the South.” The facts aren’t new to either of us, but saying the words out loud is freeing, and the more matches I make, the easier it gets. I don’t stop.
“Nobody pulls themselves up without help. I had some, too. But I paid my dues,” I say proudly. “I never took anything that didn’t belong to me, and I never cheated. That simple girl is proud and loyal, and she might not be for everyone, but she informs the woman I am—every single day. I don’t want that to change. But it doesn’t mean that in some situations I don’t feel small and like less.”
After I stop talking, it’s quiet. Not just silent, but still. My soul feels like it’s been wrenched open, exposing all the oddities, the nicks and bruises. He doesn’t say anything for what feels like forever, but it isn’t awkward. The silence is productive and healing. At least for me.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is tight, but he has the courage to look right at me when he speaks. “So sorry.” It’s earnest and sincere. Gray smooths my hair in a way that I suspect soothes him. In a small way, it soothes me too.
“I don’t mean to make you feel that way,” he continues, rubbing his thumb along the curve of my ear. “Although I suppose I did at the time. I wanted to get under your skin. But I don’t feel that you’re any less.” He lifts his heavy shoulders. “I’ve never felt that way. I’ve always felt that you’re more.”
I press my cheek into his hand.
“I don’t want you to change. I admire that girl. She’s infu
riating at times, and I’m quite sure she’s going to be the death of me.” He pauses for a beat. “But she’s perfect. As is the woman she’s become. I’m the one who can do better.”
My eyes sting. But my heart is full. Not because the road is going to be smooth from now on—it isn’t—but because I didn’t make a mistake this time. I didn’t misjudge Gray. Although the fat lady hasn’t sung yet. Unlike with Kyle, I used my voice when it mattered, and this time, I hold all the power—even when it doesn’t appear that way.
“I’ll follow your lead,” I say softly. It’s not acquiescence. It’s a decision. My decision. It’s what I want. What I need. What we both need. And most importantly, what the mission requires. “I’ll reserve my input for the times when we’re alone. But you best bring your A game, because I’m not an easy woman.”
The grin spreads slowly across his beautiful face, before he throws his head back and laughs. The sound of his happiness makes me smile. Maybe it shouldn’t, but it does.
“Not easy?” he teases. “I’ve tangled with crocodiles less troublesome than you.”
I smile to myself. Adding a wrinkle to his carefully ordered life pleases me. But I’m sure it makes it difficult for him. Although maybe that’s not all there is to it. Maybe, just maybe, he’s attracted to me in a way that complicates the mission for him as much as it does for me. If by attracted you mean he wants to have dirty sex with your pretty face.
“I need a shower and you need to get some sleep,” he says, helping me off the bar. “You have yoga at five thirty, and a run late afternoon, if you’re not too tired by then.”
Well, what do you know? Rich boys from Charleston not only know how to apologize, they know how to compromise, too. I stop to appreciate his lean, muscular frame while he checks the locks and turns out the lights.
“Hopefully Mel is worth my time. I don’t want to waste my morning with some New Age Karen who mainlines oat milk and gluten-free crackers when I could be exercising. What’s that sly smile about?”
“Nothing,” he says, heading toward the shower.
Nothing, my ass.
19
Delilah
The next morning, I wake up cranky and frustrated that there is no run happening until later today, if at all. After I do my business and throw on some sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt, I follow the voices into the kitchen. One is Gray’s deep timbre, and the other, which I don’t recognize, is even deeper.
“Good morning,” Gray says with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “This is Mel, your yoga instructor. Mel, meet Delilah.”
Mel isn’t the bony-ass woman I was expecting. He must be six feet four, with wide shoulders, dark-brown skin, and close-cropped black hair. I can’t see his backside, but I assure you it’s not scrawny. He looks to be well into his forties, but you’d never know it from the muscle rippling in his arms. Mel nods, and holds out an enormous hand. “Nice to meet you, Delilah.”
For a half-second, just a half-second, I hesitate.
“Do we have a problem?” he asks when I don’t immediately jump to take his hand.
“No—no problem,” I stammer, reaching for his hand. His grip is firm and no-nonsense, like him. “It’s just that—”
“Just what?” he challenges. “You got a problem with black men?”
“Of course not,” I say indignantly. “I was expecting someone with perky tits and a high ponytail, that’s all.” Oh my God. I can’t believe I just said that out loud.
“Me too,” Mel replies, while I’m in the throes of a heart attack. “And I expected her to be dressed appropriately for yoga too. I guess we’ll both have to get over our disappointment.”
I look from one man to the other. Gray is doing a poor job of hiding a grin. “I apologize, Mel. I didn’t mean to be rude. Gray led me to believe the yoga instructor was a skinny white girl.” I glare at Gray. “Do you two know each other from yoga?” It sounds preposterous, but whatever it takes to steer the subject away from me works.
Mel hooks his thumb toward Gray. “He was my bitch, here and there, years ago.”
When I pick up my jaw off the floor, I glance at Gray, hoping he’ll shed some light on that last comment.
“I did basic and advanced training with the master sergeant,” he says with a gleam of pride.
Master Sergeant Mel sounds so much better than New Age Karen. “So he’s a ballbuster?”
“He’s a ballbuster,” Gray repeats, his eyes sparkling. “You won’t find a bigger one. I don’t know anything about oat milk, but I assure you, he won’t waste your time.”
“Oh, that’s a guarantee,” Mel chimes in. “And I hope you’re not planning on wasting mine,” he says, emphatically. “You ever practiced yoga?”
I shake my head. “I’m more of a runner and a pull-up kind of woman.”
“I’ll leave you two,” Gray says, with the smirk not far from his lips. “I’ll be up to shower after my run.”
After my run? I’m going to kill him. I shoot daggers at the back of his head as he leaves.
“I’m not exactly sure what Gray told you he wants from me,” I say to ease the silence, “but—”
“This isn’t about what he wants from you,” Mel says, as though chiding a bratty middle-school girl. “It’s what he wants for you. Gray’s a giver, not a taker—right down to the marrow. If you see something else in him, it’s because you’re only seeing what you want to see. Or maybe you’re the kind of woman who uses every opportunity as an excuse.”
He pauses, his eyes burrowing through the layers of carefully constructed façade that I reserve for strangers. It’s not going to work with him. He sees too much.
“This here,” he raises the rolled mat he’s holding, “this is about what you want for yourself. Let’s get started. We’ll see if you have the courage to look inward.”
Ninety minutes later, I’m in the shower, aware of muscles that I never knew existed. It wasn’t stretching and chanting like I expected, but controlled breathing, taxing poses, and mindfulness—Mel said it was a basic lesson for a beginner, although it was challenging enough to give me my comeuppance. It wasn’t anywhere near the same as a run, but he did give me a decent workout.
By the time I get out to the kitchen, Gray is there, freshly showered, and looking divine in a dark bespoke suit with stripes so subtle they wouldn’t be noticeable unless you were gawking at him like I am. “Hey,” I say casually, like we bump into each other in the kitchen every morning.
“Hey. What did you think of Mel?” he asks, holding what looks to be a protein shake.
My empty stomach quivers at the murky green drink. It’s probably spinach or kale or something equally dreadful. It’s not that I don’t enjoy leafy greens. I’ll eat almost anything. But not for breakfast.
“He kicked my ass. I’m sure you already heard the ugly details.” I approach the coffee service that must have been sent up from the Wildflower kitchen while I was showering, and pour myself a cup. “You want some?”
He shakes his head. “Actually, Mel said you’re strong, and that you held your own pretty well for a beginner.”
Mel doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who hands out praise like chocolate bars on Halloween, so it’s nice to hear.
“I’ve committed to yoga,” I say, splashing some milk into my coffee, “and you’ve committed to adding a daily run to the schedule.” He didn’t actually commit to it, but I want to see if I can wheedle it out of him now. “I also have a workout plan that includes weight lifting and resistance training, plus I’m at the range twice a week. It’s all part of what I do to stay sharp for the job.” Gray’s leaning with his back against the counter, listening attentively. His expression isn’t giving anything away, but I’m quite sure he’s thinking something. “If my skills get rusty, they’ll be hard to sharpen.”
“So we’re clear, I never promised a daily run. I recall saying there was room in the calendar for a run this afternoon.” He takes the last gulp of swamp juice, and rinses the glass.
“I expect you to keep your skills sharp, and maybe even pick up one or two new ones while you’re working with me. You can use the gym downstairs any time you’d like. It’s less crowded mid-afternoon and after eight in the evening. I’m at the range a couple times a week too. We’ll go together.”
I expect you to keep your skills sharp, and maybe even pick up one or two new ones while you’re working with me. That’s what a strong leader would expect—that those under his, or her, command would grow and develop from the association. It’s why Smith was upset when he realized he wasn’t giving me enough. I let Gray’s words marinate a bit while I scan the kitchen counter for any sign of food.
“I don’t suppose you had a chance to pick up Pop-Tarts?”
He chuckles. “There’s a yogurt parfait with fresh berries and some granola in the refrigerator. The granola is made in house. It’s sweet, but the kitchen sent up some honey in case you prefer it sweeter.”
I open the sparkling-clean refrigerator with its blindingly white interior and spotless glass shelves. Aside from the parfait, there’s nothing in there but water and a jar of brandied cherries. Luxardo cherries, but not a single egg or a bottle of ketchup. I’ve opened empty refrigerators before, plenty of times, but it’s not like Gray can’t afford to keep his stocked.
I shake my head and take out the tall, stemmed parfait glass. While it’s not exactly the kind of sweet I like with my morning coffee, it does look good. I refuse to admit that to Gray, though.
“There’s no food in the refrigerator.” I snatch a long-handled spoon from the coffee cart. “Does the kitchen prepare all your meals?”
“Pretty much. Unless I’m meeting someone at a restaurant, I normally eat in my office or at the bar downstairs.”
I take a bite of the yogurt concoction, while Gray watches. “I’d like to have supper in the apartment,” I tell him. Like a normal person. “If you don’t want to join me, that’s fine. But what’s the sense of having a nice kitchen if you never use it?”