“HMMMMM.”
I moan as soon as the warm bite of syrup-soaked waffle hits my tongue. “Don’t tell me you’re a short-order cook, too, when you’re not deejaying or sweeping floors or writing songs.”
Grip laughs, not looking up from the waffle maker on the kitchen counter. Powder sprinkles his face, right above the corner of his mouth, sugary white against the caramel of his skin. I want to lick it away. That realization has me choking on my waffle.
“You okay?” Rhyson pounds my back like I’m a little girl.
“Yeah.” Eyes still watering, I sip my orange juice. “Just went down the wrong way.”
Grip brings another stack of waffles to the table.
“Send these down the right way,” he says.
Our eyes catch and hold across the table. Sunlight floods Grady’s well-appointed kitchen, and you’d never know Grip slept on the couch and hasn’t showered. Damn, the man looks good in this light. He?
?d probably look good in no light. A thin layer of stubble coats his chiseled jaw, and I wouldn’t mind rubbing up against it, feeling the scrape as he leaves a mark on me.
My vagina needs a serious pep talk.
“So what’s the plan for today?” Grip slices into his stack of waffles.
“Well, I’m in the studio pretty much all day again.” He glances at me while he chews. “Sorry about that. It’s bad timing but unavoidable.”
“It’s fine.” I pause with my orange juice halfway to my mouth. “You did say I could tag along, right?”
“Won’t you be bored?” Rhyson spears a waffle square. “I mean, if you want to come, you can.”
“And the alternative would be … what?” I ask. “Sitting here in Grady’s empty house all day?”
I could make the uncomfortable expression on his face go away, but I won’t. I want him to feel the discomfort. I’m spending my spring freaking break here so we can reconnect, and that’s what I want us to do.
“You have to be in the studio tonight?” Grip asks.
“Yeah. The singer’s coming in to lay some new vocals.” Rhyson scowls. “I hope we can knock everything out tonight. Maybe go to Santa Monica Pier tomorrow. But there may be another short session or two.”
“If you want, I can swing by the studio to get Bristol tonight on my way to Brew.” Grip directs the comment to Rhyson, not looking at me. “Take her with me.”
He’s barely spoken to me all morning. We talked last night for hours, and if I hadn’t conked out, we probably would have talked for hours more. Maybe he has this kind of connection all the time, authentic and easy. He probably stays up all night talking to girls all the time. To me, though, it feels exceptional to be able to talk with someone so openly in such a short time.
“That cool with you, Bris?” Rhyson asks.
“Sure.” I check Grip’s face for any sign that this is a pain in his ass. “If you don’t mind. Aren’t you working?”
“Just deejaying.” He taps his fork against his lips. “Jimmi will be there, too. You guys can hang.”
I chuckle and drag my fork through the sticky syrup on my plate.
“She seems cool,” I say. “And really talented. She blew the roof off Mick’s yesterday.”
“They finally let her on stage?” Rhyson rubs his eyes and yawns. “Good for her.”
I read between the lines of fatigue on my brother’s handsome face.
“You still seem sleepy, Rhys. Why don’t you go catch some z’s until you have to be at the studio?”
“You sure?” Rhyson’s eyes already seem to be drooping at the prospect of crawling back into bed. “I only need like another hour or two, then we can roll out.”
“No problem.” I walk my plate over to the sink and rinse it off. “I can clean up in here.”