The Grayson Trilogy

by Georgia Rose

  Yes, it is – and you should know. Aren’t you being a bit hypocritical, Emma?

  Well, we’re not talking about me, are we?

  Indeed we are not, consider me duly reprimanded, I say with a smile. My apologies for interrupting your flow.

  Well, she says, you’re not that bad looking, and she’s teasing me, I know. Is she flirting?

  You’re too kind, I reply, but that’s a statement, not a question, and I believe you’re laughing at me again, Grayson. I chuckle, letting her know that’s fine with me. Keep it light, Trent. Trent? Since when did you start referring to yourself in the third person, you dickhead!

  I wouldn’t dream of it! she replies, sounding all wide-eyed and innocent. Then she carries on, but it begs the question, doesn’t it? Why no one else? In that length of time, makes you wonder what’s wrong with you.

  Does it?

  I hadn’t considered the possibility before now that there was anything wrong with me, I say. Hoping that doesn’t sound too arrogant, I finish with a smile and say, thank you for bringing it to my attention.

  I’m nothing if not a gentleman.

  You’re welcome, she says. And I know she’s teasing again, but I’m going to give her something now that she won’t be expecting.

  And I tell it to her straight.

  It’s simply that no one has come along who’s sparked my interest – at least no one who has been enough of a challenge, which is what attracts me.

  Silence.

  And I think for a moment that she knows; that I’ve said too much; that I’ve blown it already. Just at the point where I decide she must be out cold, and I need to get in there because she’s sinking below the water, I hear, what was your wife’s name? and we’re back on track again.

  Zoe.

  Do you still see her?

  No. But I like the fact that you’re interested, Emma.

  What work do you do with Cavendish off the estate?

  Nice try with the change of tack, but I’m not ready to share that just yet.

  I’m blasé when I tell her I think she’s asked enough questions for one evening and show concern that she doesn’t shrivel up like a prune. I go to grab the towel I’ve left warming for her on the range (yes, I am that good) and I warn her against drowning in the meantime.

  I take the towel in to her, holding it up to cover my eyes, and leave her to get dry. When I next see her she’s wearing pyjamas that she manages not only to look adorable in, but also as sexy as hell – how does she do that? I dose her up with painkillers and leave her to get into bed, but she’s pretty much asleep before her head hits the pillow.

  I can’t sleep. I put the dog out. I lock up. I watch some shit TV. I try to make a fuss of Susie, who’s having none of it (she’s a tough nut to crack, that one. I can sense she’s suspicious of my motives for being here), and I read. I go to bed and read some more, a lot more, but I know sleep is not going to come. Not with her so close.

  I get up, wander out onto the landing and look in at her door. She’s spark out. My sleeping beauty, and I don’t use that term lightly. She really is a beauty; not of the pampered, highly polished, plucked, buffed, made up and perfumed variety, but a natural, and what makes her even more attractive to me is that she has absolutely no idea how beautiful she is.

  Her hair, which she’d call brown, is so much more than that. It’s lustrous and auburn; golden-red streaks in it catch the light, but more often than not it’s a mess – like now – stuck up all over the place. I’ve seen her take her riding hat off when it’s hot and put her head under the yard tap before running her fingers through her hair, saying with a brief laugh she’s livening it up. And I want to run my fingers through it too.

  Long thick eyelashes lie across pale skin that so often betrays her feelings. She blushes and it’s endearing. Her colour rises with her temper and that is a glorious thing to behold. I remember the first time we met when she went for me over Susie and that challenge turned me on. That was the moment when I knew. Right there, right then, I knew.

  And her lips…those lips. Their lush fullness always captures more of my attention than it should. I take a seat in the armchair to watch her for a few minutes, just to check she’s all right, and I try not to imagine what it would be like to be in that bed right now with that body. Lean, fit and toned. The gym clothes she wears cover everything yet leave little to the imagination, and here and now it’s difficult not to think of how it would feel to be skin to skin with her, that body arching into mine; warm, soft, firm. I feel myself stir and force all thoughts of a more salacious nature to the back of my mind because despite the sexual tension she provokes in me I’m at peace here. When I’m with her everything feels right and I’m at ease. I know I could eventually nod off in the chair, comfortable in her presence, but I don’t want her to find me here in the morning.

  She wakes once, when she turns over, and stares straight at me. I freeze, expecting her to say something, but barely awake she lies her head down and is straight back to sleep.

  I glance at the ceiling as I hear a creaking of floorboards. She’s up. Flicking the kettle on, I finish getting her breakfast ready. By the time I get upstairs she’s back in bed, and despite my sleepless night I aim for positive when I ask her how she’s feeling.

  She replies that she’s sore and grumpy, which is frankly not that surprising. The bruising will be coming out and today is not likely to be a good one for her. She tries, unsuccessfully, to get into a comfortable sitting position, so I put the tray down and go to help prop her up. She’s so warm as I arrange the pillows behind her.

  Pills first, I say as I hand them to her with the orange juice, then rather unnecessarily I add, I’ve made you breakfast in bed.

  She smiles. How do you know what I like for breakfast? That voice – smoky as if she has a twenty-a-day habit. It does something to me every time.

  Let’s see how I’ve done, shall we? I say, and I grin as I put the tray on her lap then stand back to await her verdict. She looks down: a mug of tea, builder’s strength with very little milk.

  No sugar? she enquires.

  No sugar, I confirm.

  Two pieces of toast with marmalade – perfect. Well done. Good guesswork.

  Good detective work, you mean, I say, though it wasn’t difficult. Her kitchen is hardly packed to the rafters with every type of culinary ingredient known to man. There’s only what she uses and no more. Bread, marmalade, teabags, milk – semi-skimmed.

  Can I sit down? I ask.

  Of course, she mumbles through her first bite of toast. I come round to the other side of the bed and sit on it, as casual as you like, so I’m facing her. She’s not expecting that at all, I can tell immediately. She’s acutely conscious of me being on her bed. I know I make her uncomfortable, that I affect her physically, and we’ve been circling each other for months – ever since that night in the gym.

  She’d landed a blow that doubled me over, then I’d felt her hand on my side, like a brand on my skin, the electricity of that connection jolting us into the reality of what was between us. I was already there, but it was in that moment, like a switch being flicked on, that I saw it in her eyes. I was alarmed at the time; I knew she was a flight risk and I desperately didn’t want her to run, so I cooled things down immediately, happy to wait until she was ready.

  However, here and now I’m determined to play any advantage I can, so I look as comfortable and relaxed as possible, and as if sitting on her bed in my pyjamas is not at all strange.

  How did you sleep? I ask.

  Okay, although I woke once to find you watching me. What was that about?

  I’m prepared for this and I grin cheekily at her as I reply, well, the snoring stopped so I thought I’d better come in and check you were still alive.

  She looks at me in horror before she says indignantly, I do not snore!

  I laugh at her horrified expression before responding, good to see you focus on the important part of what I just said.

>   She finishes her piece of toast, but offers me the second one which I take and dispatch happily as she sits drinking her tea and watching me eat. Loss of appetite, is that a good thing?

  What plans do you have for the day? she asks.

  None, other than to look after you, I reply.

  I’m going to get in the shower as I need to wash my hair. I presume you don’t need to watch me do that as the likelihood of me drowning is minimal.

  Funny girl.

  Your sarcasm is not lost on me, Grayson. That’ll be fine, but don’t lock the door, will you, just in case? You’re likely to be stiffer than yesterday, so if you need help in dressing you’ll have to call me. I’m going to leap in your shower first, though, if that’s okay?

  And I go to get my towel from my room and spend a few minutes ‘enjoying’ a cold shower, if that’s possible. I think it’s probably best if I stick to those while I’m here. She’s having an unfortunate effect on me and I’m up and down as often as the Oblivion ride at Alton Towers. I could do with a run, burn off some of my excess energy.

  I dry myself then walk out with the towel slung round my hips, but the show’s wasted as she’s turned away from me, getting off the bed. Shame. It’s been obvious to me over the years that women find me attractive. Any women; all women. I’ve never had any difficulty in getting them horizontal, but as I get older I find their eagerness tiresome. Then up pops Emma, the very antithesis of eager, and there has been no one, no one at all, anywhere near me since I met her in the stable yard. She challenged me, and that was that. Pathetic, I know. You don’t need to tell me. I’m thirty-five, in my prime, with a tough no-nonsense military trained persona, yet she has me feeling like some overgrown schoolkid working up to a first date. And while I’ve sometimes wondered if she’s guessed at my feelings for her, I don’t believe she has the first idea of the extent of the effect she has on me.

  I leave her to shower while I dress and clear up downstairs, then I go back up to check she’s getting on okay. I should have called out, but I don’t as I’m distracted by her groan of pain, and as she doesn’t hear my approach she starts when I say, that looks painful, and she glares at me as she covers her chest, snapping and wanting to know why I’m looking at her. I ignore this awkward moment though I’m annoyed I’ve made her uncomfortable. Don’t worry, I try to reassure, your modesty is intact, and I move towards her, offering to help her dress, and she questions softly, what looks painful?

  I’m standing behind her as I answer. I’ll show you, I say, and in order to do this properly I take a chance. Excuse me a moment, I add and gently ease her tracksuit bottoms down a little so the band of them sits just below her hips. I feel her breath catch.

  There’s a particularly blackish band as wide as this, I say, and I open up the gap between my thumb and first finger to about four or five inches to show her, bringing my hand round in front of her so she can see. Stretching from here, I tell her, and I put my fingers gently on her shoulder then run them down into the arch of her back and over her natural curve to the opposite hip, to here, I finish, letting my fingers rest on her hip for a moment.

  And I still, silently relishing the feel of her skin. Clearing my throat, I carry on, my voice quiet, the bruising extends out from that line through various changes of colour from purple to a yellowy-green. Then there’s another bruise extending up from your other hip from where you hit the ground. As I say this my fingers trail slowly across her lower back to the other hip, where again I pause and my breathing deepens.

  Christ, this feels so good. My fingers are warm against her skin, which is soft and cool, and she smells incredible: the light scent of body wash, but under that, all her.

  And, finding it difficult to swallow, I hold my breath and close my eyes.

  It is all I can do not to lean down and kiss her neck. I try to block out thoughts of how that would feel, and fail, wanting to run my tongue along her skin, kissing, tasting, exploring every part of her, completely absorbed in her, in every cell of her being. I feel her shiver through my fingers.

  Are you okay? I murmur, my voice thick. I move away slightly. It wouldn’t do for her to feel just how badly she’s affecting me.

  Yes, sorry, just ticklish, she explains, and I can sense how flustered she is as she turns towards me. I gaze at her for a long moment before breaking the spell.

  Let’s finish getting you dressed then. Promise to close my eyes, I joke, easing the tension between us. I help her quickly, then excuse myself and disappear downstairs and outside. Fresh air is very much what I need, as well as a few moments to regain control of myself. I see Carlton over at the yard getting the horses ready and raise a hand in greeting to him. He replies similarly, but he is busy and doesn’t look in the mood to talk, which suits me. I leave him to it and, picking up the papers that Hayes has dropped off for us, I go through to the sitting room and make myself comfortable.

  Emma joins me a short while later having told Susie to eat the breakfast I made for her, and that she won’t touch because I made it for her.

  She takes a section of the papers and curls up on the other settee to read. We enjoy some banter; it’s been a long time since I’ve done this and it feels good, natural. We’re getting on well, and I suddenly have the horrible feeling that unless something happens soon there is every chance we shall end up falling into the dreaded friendzone. There is no escape from that. And I can’t have that. Not at all.

  We have only just finished lunch when a message comes in on my phone. I take it out of my pocket to read – what the hell? It’s an unexpected contact from the past which makes my stomach clench and I look across at Emma. I have to deal with this, and I know I’m distracted when I tell her to go and rest, I need to go outside to make a call.

  The yard is empty now and I call Dr Philpott as requested. I pace up and down near my truck, waiting for him to answer but knowing this cannot be good news. This will never be good news. I listen as he tells me that Zoe has absconded from under his care. It’s not as if she’s in a locked-up facility – any more – but she has appointments to keep, which she hasn’t, and her prescription hasn’t been filled. I ask a lot of questions, most of which he can’t answer. While I’m angry I manage not to take it out on him, though I suspect he’s fully aware of my mood. He has done me a favour, though: he didn’t have to tell me. In fact, he shouldn’t have told me, what with all those instructions Zoe insisted on putting on her file. But Dr Philpott is concerned she may come looking for me, and I guess there’s a chance of that, but I think it’s a slim one.

  And then suddenly I realise – and I close my eyes. A cold shiver passes through me and the knot in my stomach tightens. A woman – Emma asking me where the woman was. And I know.

  Shit.

  I make a call to Cavendish and fill him in. He says he’ll come round later, keep it casual, ask a few questions and see if he can get any description. I’m pleased he’ll do this as I don’t want to. I’ve already been dismissive of what happened when Emma wasn’t able to remember much, and if I open up the conversation now it will raise her suspicions. I don’t want to go into my past with Zoe just yet. All in good time on that score, I think.

  I go back in, clear up and go through to watch a film, but I see and hear nothing of it. My feel-good feeling has all but gone, my thoughts are deep in the past and now filled with worries for the future. By the end of the film I’ve convinced myself I’ve overreacted by calling Cavendish. It couldn’t have been Zoe who leapt out on Emma. Why would she have done so? It’s not as if Emma and I are in a relationship, mores the pity, and if Zoe was going to go for anyone it would be me. It has always been me in the past, and it makes no sense for her to have attacked Emma.

  When the film ends Emma walks slowly over to the yard to check in with Carlton. I watch her from the kitchen window as I call Cavendish again. I tell him I’ve overreacted, but he disagrees and says he’ll come anyway, just to make sure, to cover our bases. He arrives about half an hour later, and bring
s dinner with him.

  Now, not much gets past Emma and I get the distinct impression that she’s aware something is up, but Cavendish quickly turns his full enthusiastic attention on and can’t apologise enough for what his horse has done to her. She reassures him that it was nothing to do with Regan and goes on to explain to him what happened. He questions her at some length about the woman, but Emma can’t tell him much. We’re no further forward on that front as Emma seems to doubt her own recollection now, though she’s pleased that Cavendish takes her account more seriously than I did. And I hope she doesn’t join the dots between the sudden interest and my earlier call.

  Cavendish leaves soon after, insisting Emma is not to go back to work until at least the following week, and we say our goodbyes. Then we’re alone again.

  I get dinner ready – another masterpiece from Mrs F that only requires reheating – and I call through to see if Emma is up to eating at the table, which she is. I make an extra effort and light a candle. She comes through and smiles, tells me how nice it looks. We sit to eat and I offer a bottle. I know she prefers red, and I say, I know you can’t drink at the moment, but I asked them to put in this bottle of non-alcoholic wine I thought you might like. Do you want to try some? We can pretend it’s the real thing.

  Yes please, she says, before offering me a ‘real’ alternative if I want to help myself. There’s no reason you shouldn’t have a drink, she adds.

  There’s every reason, I think, such as not saying too much, or doing anything I’ll regret later. But I smile as I reply, I thought I’d join you, show support for the invalid.

  She starts with the questions again, wanting to know if I have any family around.

  I don’t have any family left, I reply. A late surprise for my parents, I was an only child, and they both died a few years ago, so now it’s just me.

  That’s a shame, she says, and she’s genuine. Of course she would be, but this doesn’t stop me from being clumsy moments later.

  Yes it is, I respond, but I had my parents’ love and support until I was more than grown up. Losing your parents at the age you lost yours is what’s hard…Sorry, that was a bit tactless.