Total pages in book: 224
Estimated words: 215705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1079(@200wpm)___ 863(@250wpm)___ 719(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1079(@200wpm)___ 863(@250wpm)___ 719(@300wpm)
Chapter thirty-seven
Carrie
Grayson Bennett’s beachfront property is a complex, sprawling property that somehow manages to be understated with a wood finish and numerous steeple tops. Reid and I start up the front steps, and I’m aware of his hand resting on my back, hyper-aware of his touch, as well as that secret and promise between us. I’m also aware of the confidence that he has in my ability to impress Grayson. That’s pressure, not from him alone, but from myself as well. I want to impress Grayson and I mentally shove aside that call with my father, and all the questions and emotions it clearly has stirred.
“Just do you,” Reid says, reaching out to ring the bell, only to have the door open before he even presses the button.
A slender woman in a navy-blue pantsuit, with raven hair and blue eyes, appears in the doorway. “Welcome, Reid and Carrie,” she says. “I’m Leslie, the household manager, which is a fancy way of saying that I’m Grayson’s godmother. I look out for the house while he’s gone, and him while he’s here. As I will the two of you tonight.” She smiles and steps back, waving her hand in our direction. “Come in.”
This warm greeting has an unexpectedly intimate feeling and I find Leslie quite charming. Reid’s fingers flex on my back, urging me forward first, and I step ahead of him to enter the open-concept foyer distinguished by a table to the right and a chandelier above. The entrance opens wide into a beautiful room with dark gray floors, high ceilings, and dangling elegant lights. And of course, as would be expected, there’s a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, and a fireplace, that together frame a living area that’s a mix of gray and cream furnishings.
Reid steps to my side, and while he doesn’t touch me this time, I have this sense of possessiveness in him, like he’s ready to stake a claim, a contrast to anything he’s made me feel about this meeting up until this moment. I don’t understand why he would feel this, and perhaps it’s simply protectiveness, but whatever the case, it’s fierce, radiating off him and crashing into me. I want to ask him, to understand, but Leslie is quickly in front of us. “Grayson is on the back patio,” she says, motioning us forward as she leads the way.
Reid leans in close and whispers his prior words. “Just do you.”
“Does that mean you’re going to just do you? Are you going to be an asshole?”
His lips curve and he winks. “You know it, baby.”
I laugh, and somehow that exchange eases my tension, and his too, I think. We both settle into the challenge before us and start walking, following a path along the edge of the sleekly decorated kitchen of gray marble and the living area, to an exit with a glass door. Beyond it, a cozy, enclosed patio complete with a fireplace and a view of the ocean greets us. Immediately to our left is a square table for four where Grayson sits, his dark hair wavy and thick, his goatee neatly trimmed.
He stands upon our approach, towering a good bit over six feet tall by my estimates, his attire of black jeans and a simple black T-shirt, as unassuming as everything about this encounter thus far. “Reid,” he greets, and the two men exchange a firm handshake before Grayson’s intense, deep green eyes land heavily on me, an assessment in their depths. “Nice to meet you, Carrie.”
“Nice to meet you as well,” I say, “and thank you for the invitation to your lovely home.”
“I’m pleased to have you here,” he says. “And what better way to get to know each other than in private, and outside a formal setting.” He motions to the chair beside him. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Reid holds out my chair and I sit down before the men join me, Reid to my left, and Grayson to my right. “We have lasagna for dinner,” Leslie announces, joining us. “But I can accommodate any special needs or requests.”
“Lasagna sounds wonderful,” I say quickly.
“My first home-cooked meal in years,” Reid adds.
“That’s too long,” she says, scoffing in disapproval. “And no better meal than Grayson’s mother’s lasagna to fix that problem. Ann might be gone, but she keeps our bellies full.” She glances at Grayson and then quickly changes the topic. “What can I get everyone to drink? We have about every choice you might wish for: wine, brandy, scotch. The list goes on.”
I glance at Grayson’s glass of wine. “I would say I’ll try what you’re having, but I’m afraid that in an effort to not take advantage of your hospitality, I don’t want to choose something outrageously expensive.”
He laughs. “I’m actually drinking an excellent hundred-dollar bottle of pinot I found while in Sonoma.” He fills my empty glass with the bottle sitting in the center of the table. “The most expensive wines are like all things in life, not always the best and I have a lot of money because I don’t throw away what I have.” He glances at Reid. “I believe we share this trait.”