“Very. She made sure I knew their game.”
He waves a hand between our chests.
“This, what we’re feeling,” he says, his eyes going sober. “It isn’t a game.”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to tell me we should jump off this cliff. That as crazy as it seems, we’ll hold on tight and break each other’s fall.
“It’s complicated.” He lowers his eyes before lifting them to meet mine. “It’s just an attraction, and we should probably resist it. I mean, you’re only here a few days. If things didn’t work out for us, it could make shit awkward with Rhyson, and I know you want to repair things with him. There’s a million reasons we shouldn’t act on this attraction. Right?”
“Right.” I offer a decisive nod. “A million reasons.”
As we ride back to Grady’s bungalow in our first strained silence since we met at the airport, I realize he was wise to stop whatever could have happened in the alley. It would probably have been a half-drunken regret. There are a million reasons we should stop. But right now, I can only think of the one reason not to stop.
Because I don’t want to.
10
BRISTOL
THE RIDE HOME from Brew is mostly silent. Yet, it’s a silence filled with all the reasons Grip and I shouldn’t indulge the attraction plaguing us. Grip’s scent alone—more than clean, less than cologne, and somehow uniquely his—makes me close my eyes and take it in with sneaky sniffs. I wonder if he’s taking me in, too. I still tingle from that alleyway alchemy, the chemistry that snapped and sizzled between us behind the club. It’s all I can think of.
“We’re here.” His voice is deep and low in the confines of the car.
I glance at Grady’s house, which is dark except for the porch light, and wonder if Rhyson is home, awake, interested in finishing the argument we started earlier. Because who doesn’t want to scratch and claw with their sister at two o’clock in the morning?
“Thanks.” I turn a grateful smile on him, not meeting his eyes. I fumble with the handle until the door opens, the cool air raising goose bumps on my arms. Or maybe that’s his touch, the gentle hand at my elbow. I lo
ok back to him, waiting for whatever he has to say.
“Bristol, I . . .” He bunches his brow and gives a quick shake of his head before turning to face forward. Both hands on the wheel of the ancient Jeep. “Never mind.”
“Um, okay.” I get out, ready to slam the door when his words stop me again.
“I had fun tonight.” He leans across the middle console so I can see his face a little. His interior light doesn’t work, so he’s still basically in the dark. The shadows smudge the striking details of his face, but I feel the intensity of his eyes.
“You had fun wrangling a half-drunk girl off the dance floor and arguing in a dirty alleyway?” I ask sarcastically. “Yeah, right.”
I hear the little huff of a laugh from the driver’s seat.
“I had fun hanging with you,” he responds softly, the smile tinting his voice. I let his words settle over me for a moment before I pat the roof of the car twice and step back.
“Me, too,” I finally answer. “Have a good night and thanks for everything.”
Manners.
As Grip pulls away from the curb, I can’t help but wonder why I’m being painfully polite when what I’m starting to feel for him is anything but well mannered.
A little wild. A lot unexpected. Completely unlikely, but definitely not polite.
I use the key Rhyson gave me and hope there isn’t an alarm. I walk deeper into the house, still a little wired but unsure what to do. The door leading to the kitchen opens, and Rhyson steps into the living room.
“Hey,” I say softly, watching for signs of lingering anger.
“Hey.” His eyes fix on my face, and I’m guessing he’s gauging me, too. “You too tired to talk?”
I sit on the couch and gesture for him to join me. He sits, elbows to his knees and eyes on the floor.
“I’m sorry for how out of control things got at the studio,” he says, his voice quiet, subdued. “I . . .I don’t feel like we know each other anymore.”