When Grayson wasn't wearing a suit, I knew there was something wrong.
This, among other feelings, was why I tensed when I walked into the sunroom. I'd only discovered the domed, airy space a week ago, and had immediately decided it would be my getaway.
Today, I'd come because I wanted to be alone.
However, with a blond, nineteen-year-old guy sitting on one of the two couches sitting back-to-back in the middle of the room, that seemed quite impossible.
Grayson didn't look up when I walked inside.
However, I suspected it wasn't due to a lack of interest but rather because he was trying to obscure the tears silently cascading down his cheeks. Though with the domed ceiling composed of nothing but glass, Grayson's face was highlighted by the sun.
After he realized that I'd already noticed, he didn't try to hide the tears. Instead, he angled his body away so that the sun ignited his back rather than his face.
"Grayson?" I didn't know why it came out as a question.
Perhaps because I'd never seen anyone else in this room other than myself. But it was naive to think that I'd discovered a completely new room, considering the boys had several years on me.
Grayson cleared his throat, voice gruff when he asked, "Did Jamie show you this room?"
"No."
Before I could be offended that Grayson thought I was incapable of discovering a room on my own, he stood, crossing the room.
I watched him near the arched door and wondered if he was about to leave, but he simply closed the door and pushed a panel that feigned a locking mechanism. I heard gears lock into place. Before returning to his couch, Grayson pushed his lean body against the door to ensure it had safely locked.
"I can leave," I offered, studying his expression.
Grayson apparently wasn't used to visitors up here because he'd failed to lock the door before I'd entered.
"So can I," he responded.
But neither of us did.
By then, Grayson had returned to the comfort of his couch. Since his dominance took up most of it, I crossed the room and on the couch opposite his. The backs were pressed together, meaning a conversation would likely not include eye contact.
I settled down, my nerves alert.
"When did you find this room?" Grayson asked.
I swallowed. His voice was right behind me. For all I knew, the back of my head ended where his began.
"Last week," I said.
"Curtesy of whom?"
"Myself." A hint of stubbornness crept into my voice.
Perhaps this room had been Grayson's escape until I'd discovered it. I almost felt bad for interrupting his silence — but I couldn't feel sympathy for someone yelling to me like this.
Grayson didn't say anything in response, so I continued, "Do you come here a lot?"
"Everyday."
My eyebrows shot upward. No wonder I'd seen less of him lately.
"Why?"
"It's the only quiet area in this house."
"What about your room?"
"It's across from Xander's room."
He had a point.
"What do you come here for?" I asked.
Grayson's head brushed mine as I heard him shift. "To think."
"About what?"
A soft sigh slipped his throat. "Everything." A pause rattled between us before he elaborated. "College decisions. Girls."
My breath caught at the girls comment. Instead, I decided to focus on the first.
"You got into Harvard, Grayson. Would you really consider anywhere else?"
"Yes," he admitted.
"Why?"
Another pause. "Because it could be closer to my family."
Since Grayson was rarely on good terms with the majority of his family, a piece of me wondered if he was also referring to me.
"You love getting away from them," I argued.
"That doesn't mean I don't miss them."
I turned my head only to see the nape of his neck. Dryly, I said, "You can buy plane tickets whenever you want."
"Money can't buy you everything."
"Such as?"
"Relationships."
I couldn't help a backward glance. This whole conversation seemed strangely relevant to me, although he seemed to be referring to his brothers.
"Family relationships?" I clarified.
"And potential romances."
"With who?" I scoffed. "Eve?"
He cleared his throat. "Never."
"Are you only willing to date girls that look precisely like Emily?"
Behind me, Grayson went quiet. For several seconds, I contemplated whether I had crossed the line.
But then he said, "I don't care what she looks like. The only attribute I want is compatibility."
I glanced back, angered that he was still refusing to look at me. Or perhaps we were both turning our heads at the wrong times.
Evenly, I said, "If all you want is compatibility, it seems odd that the only two girls you've shown interest in were practically identical."
"You forgot one."
"Huh?"
"Only two out of the three are identical." A pause. "And, unfortunately, I fell harder for the latter."
I turned both my head and body to face him. Grayson was still turned away, but I persisted by asking, "If the third doesn't look like the other two, then what does she look like?"
Finally — finally — Grayson turned toward me. We were now facing each other, though our pieces of furniture prohibited any closeness. His eyes were steely as he said, "Take a look in the mirror sometime."
My heart hiccuped.
The line seemed like a perfect advancement into a kiss, but that wasn't how Grayson functioned. He liked his moves to be precise and measured — not clouded by doubts of his feelings not being reciprocated.
And perhaps that was why he was dodging my questions with clever but not specific answers.
I'd gathered enough, however, to recognize that there was still a fire flickering between us. One Grayson seemed intent on kindling.
However, the one thing he was avoiding was pouring gasoline on it.
So, without a single hesitation, I leaned in to kiss him. Grayson didn't respond readily, but when I moved my lips against his, he finally kissed me in return.
It was soft, measured.
Hesitant until we both realized that we wanted it.
And what a scary realization that was.
