Play It Safe by Kristen Ashley
I carefully shifted to the front of the sink (thus closer to Gray), bent over the basin and turned it on.
“Jesus, honest to God, I’ve never seen that much hair,” a still with foam in his mouth Gray noted and my neck twisted, my eyes lifting to his face.
“Sorry?”
“You got a lot of hair, darlin’,” he said through the foam.
“Well…yeah.”
He grinned through the foam and my heart skipped a beat because bare-chested, toothpaste foamed, grinning with dimple Gray would make any woman’s heart skip a beat.
I turned back to the water.
Then I made short work of washing my face.
This, I did not want to do.
I did not wear a lot of makeup but at least it was something, a mask, a guard. I needed those.
No one but Casey ever saw the real me.
And now, so would Gray.
I turned off the water, reached for the towel and wiped my face bent over the sink.
“Shift, honey, gotta spit,” Gray muttered and I did my best not to jump out of his way while getting out of his way and succeeded.
He bent at the waist, spit, rinsed, grabbed another towel and wiped.
Okay, good. This was done. It was done. He’d leave.
He opened the medicine cabinet and came out with floss.
Well, it couldn’t be said I didn’t notice that he had great teeth. Still, I had to admit that I kind of wished tonight he didn’t choose to keep up all the good work he’d clearly been doing since he could wield a toothbrush.
He cut off a string, put it back and stepped aside.
I got down to the business of my teeth.
Gray stepped into the sink to rinse again before I finished and I felt relief.
Now he would go.
He didn’t go.
He leaned into the basin and crossed his arms on his amazing chest.
I kept brushing and looked up at him.
Then I forced myself to keep brushing as my heart skipped another beat and this was because he was grinning while looking at me.
And he kept grinning while looking at me as I kept brushing.
This went on awhile.
I pulled the brush out of my mouth and said through foam, “What?”
“Never, in my life, in this bathroom have I shared a sink with a woman. Now, I’m doin’ it and I don’t even know her last name.”
“I don’t know your last name,” I pointed out through foam.
“Cody.”
I stared at him. Then, still through foam, I asked, “Your name is Gray Cody?”
“Grayson Cody,” he corrected.
Jeez. That was like the wild west rancher cowboy name to beat all wild west rancher cowboy names. That kicked the name “John Wayne” right up the backside. It beat the heck out of “Roy Rogers”. Totally slaughtered even “Wyatt Earp” who wasn’t a wild west rancher cowboy, he was a bad boy lawman famously known for his participation in a gunfight so clearly more badass than your most badass wild west rancher cowboy and still Gray’s name kicked Earp’s name’s ass.
It was the best wild west rancher cowboy name in history.
“Pay a mint to know what’s goin’ on in your head right now,” he muttered, still grinning, still looking at me, still with his fabulous arms crossed on his wide, beautiful chest.
“You have the best wild west rancher cowboy name in history,” I told him.
He burst out laughing.
My heart stopped.
Then I bent over the sink, spit, rinsed, rinsed my toothbrush, wiped and grabbed my stuff.
Then I got the heck out of there, muttering, “’Night, Gray.”
And I did it fast.
And I did it because I had to get smart fast.
Because I could handle his beauty. I could handle his smile. I could handle his dimple. I could handle that he looked out for me. I could even handle the gentle, tenderness of his voice and look earlier.
But I could not handle his laughter.
Definitely not me giving it to him.
It was the most beautiful thing about him in a long line of beautiful things. It was deep, it was rich, it was warm, it was engaging and it was the kind of thing you wanted to hear every day, a hundred times a day for the rest of your life. So much so, you’d work at it, you’d tie yourself in knots, you’d live and breathe to make it happen, giving him humor so he’d give that beauty to you.
So I had to get smart.
Fast.
Chapter Seven
Preserves
Six hours later…
I heard the movement and murmur of voices downstairs and I got out of bed.
Gray was right; it was far more comfortable than Manny’s bed at the hotel. The quilt was thin but it was heavy and warm. The sheets were old and therefore washed frequently so they were soft.
I still had around two hours of sleep.
I had to get up, get back to town and get out of Mustang.
I dressed in the room then hustled down the hall. This time, I paid attention even though I still heard the murmur of voices from downstairs, the sounds of something happening in the kitchen, the smell of bacon so I guessed no one was upstairs.
The bathroom door was open, the light out. I hurried in, closed the door and saw it didn’t have a lock.
Of course not.
Family knew, the door was closed, the room was occupied.
It was just me who didn’t know stuff like that.
I did my business, washed my face, brushed my teeth. Without Gray in there, I now saw that the bathroom was countrified charm just like everything else. Claw-footed tub. Ceramic pedestal sink but it was very wide bowled, the bowl square, deep ledges at the top and sides to hold stuff. A bathroom mirror with frilly, beveled edges and scrolled etching at the top. Gray (or his Grandma) didn’t mess around with towels, I was surprised to see. They were not old, worn and soft like everything else. They were new-ish, thick and soft. There was a shelf with some old-fashioned, chrome boxes on it but also a little vase with more slightly wilted flowers.
Gray’s Grandma liked flowers, clearly.
It would be nice if I had the money to pop by the flower shop in town to order flowers delivered as a thank you to her for having such a wonderful grandson.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have the money.
I got out of there, hustled back down the hall, made the bed carefully, fluffing the pillows, smoothing out the sheets then smoothing out the quilt then straightening the blanket at the end. Then I swiftly packed my small bag, zipped up and walked out. Down the stairs, the voices were stronger, the smell of bacon frying weaker, the sounds of cutlery on plates could now be heard.
Making my point, I dropped my bag by the front door, turned and started to head down the hall to the kitchen.
My step nearly stuttered when I saw her.
Long, attractive gray hair, top and sides pulled back in a clip at the nape of her neck, granny nightgown on, pristine white, buttoned all the way up to the frilled, high collar. Wrapped around her upper arms and shoulders was a fluffy, loosely-knit, gray wool shawl. She was a Grandma straight from a TV show but that TV show was set on a farm on the plains in the 1800s. I half expected Michael Landon to walk in the backdoor sporting suspenders and sweeping off his hat.
I didn’t even know they made nightgowns like that anymore and I’d never, not once, seen anyone wrapped in a shawl.
Her eyes were aimed down the hall at me.
Her bottom was settled in a wheelchair.
Now I knew why Gray lived with Grandma.
Yes. He was a good man. Down to his bones.
When I got close, I forced a smile and said quietly, “Hi.”
Her blue eyes shrewd, she took me in top-to-toe on a quick, experienced sweep, her gaze coming back to me giving nothing away and she replied, “Good morning, Ivey.”
Gray had told her about me.
I entered the kitchen to see Gray seated across the table from
His eyes were on me and they were twinkling.
“Mornin’, Ivey,” he greeted.
I stopped a foot in the doorway. “Good morning, Gray.”
“Sleep okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I lied.
The twinkle in his eyes went south, a grin hit his lips and the dimple came out.
My belly curled.
Stay smart, my brain reminded me.
“Want some breakfast?” he asked, tipping his head down to his plate.
I shook my head. “Thanks, but no. I appreciate it but I have to get back into town. Can I use your phone? I’ll call a taxi so I don’t put you out.”
The twinkle faded and he opened his mouth to say something but Grandma got there before him.
“Everyone needs breakfast.”
I looked at her. “I’m not usually up this early. I’ll get something on the road.”
She studied me a moment then stated, “I’m Miriam Cody.”
Darn. I’d been rude. I should have introduced myself.
I moved to her, not close, not too far she couldn’t reach me and I stretched out a hand.
“It’s lovely to meet you. As I think you know, I’m Ivey.”
She took my hand, gave me a light squeeze then let it go, all of that not taking her eyes from me.
She tipped her head to a chair with its back to the door and invited, “Sit down. I’ll make you some eggs.”
She’d make me some eggs?
How would she do that in a wheelchair?
I didn’t ask even though I wanted to know.
“Really,” I shook my head, “thank you but no. Gray has been very kind, I’ve taken a lot of his time already and I’m really not a breakfast person. Especially not this early. But again, thank you.”
I wondered if I was laying on the gratitude too thick. I could tell by her assessing eyes, her blank face and her aloof manner that she didn’t like what she saw in me. I was used to this, especially from women and that especially was most especially from older women. They had experience. They saw things other people didn’t see. She didn’t like what she saw in me. She didn’t like that her grandson hit the breakfast table with an angry cut over his eye that had to be closed by plasters. She didn’t like that her grandson hit the breakfast table with a cut over his eye and the news he had a girl in their guest room.
She didn’t like her grandson with me.
“At least have coffee, some toast,” she encouraged.
Hells bells.
I had never been a guest in anyone’s home but I suspected it would be rude to say no three times.
“Thanks,” I whispered, moved to the chair she indicated as Gray scooted his back.
“I’ll get it,” he muttered.
“No,” I said quickly and sharply though I didn’t know why and I shouldn’t have done it.
Gray’s eyes cut to me and I felt his grandmother’s on me. His brows were slightly drawn; he was confused at my tone.
“Please,” I said quietly, “don’t interrupt your breakfast for me. I can pour a cup of coffee.”
He studied me a second, jerked his chin up slightly, settled back in his chair and pushed himself to the table.
I went to the coffeemaker that had a half-full pot and had also been pulled to close to the edge of the counter likely so Grandma could get to it should she want to wheel herself over there to refresh her cup. Beside it was a stand with a bunch of mismatched but all interesting cups (and all big, apparently ranchers or orchard people liked their coffee) hanging from hooks.
I nabbed a cup, turned it on its bottom on the butcher block counter and grabbed the pot. Then it hit me and I turned to the table.
“Does anyone need a warm up?” I asked, lifting the pot.
Gray looked at me and answered, “Thanks, I’m good, Ivey.”
“I could use a warm up,” Grandma Miriam said.
I nodded, moved to her, warmed up her cup then moved back and got my own.
I barely had my bottom planted in the seat by Grandma Miriam before Gray offered, “Least have some toast. You gotta try Gran’s preserves.”
I looked to the pot of jam.
She cooked eggs.
She made jam.
In a wheelchair.
I thought this was very interesting.
“That sounds great,” I murmured and before I could protest, Gray was out of his seat, in a cupboard and he came back with a small plate that had frilly edges and flowers printed on it, leaning across the table to put it in front of me.
The toast was already buttered, perfectly toasted, light and golden. I grabbed a slice, tagged the jam and prepared it. Then I splashed milk in my coffee, spooned in a sugar. Silently I went about eating and sipping.
Great coffee. I was right about the toast, perfect. And the jam was amazing. Jam, I thought, was jam. But I was wrong.
Granny nightgown. Homemade preserves. Strawberry wallpaper. Wilted flowers here and there.
I loved Grandma Miriam and it was just my life that she would never love me.
“So, how old are you, Ivey?” Grandma Miriam asked and my eyes slid to her.
This was not good. If she wanted to affect a third degree, I was sitting at her table. I was drinking her coffee. I’d slept in one of her beds. I was eating her preserves. And her grandson had bled for me.
I couldn’t avoid it.
Darn.
“Twenty-two,” I answered.
Her eyes moved over my face before coming back to mine to compliment, “You have very pretty hair.”
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“And unusual eyes,” she went on. “Lovely.”
“Thanks,” I repeated on a whisper.
“Did you get those from your mother or your father?”
Steel slid down my spine and I had to do the impossible, give in at the same time fight it.
“My mother with the eyes. I don’t know where I got my hair.”
She held my gaze, unwavering.
I pulled mine away and ate my toast.
I didn’t look back at her when she asked, “Where do you hail from?”
“We moved around a lot,” I evaded.
Silence then, “I see.”
Yep. I was sure she did.
I finished the toast, sat back, eyes to the table and sipped coffee.
Moments slid by then again from Grandma but not to me, “Best get Ivey into town, sweetheart. I’ll do the dishes.”
I didn’t eat breakfast but I figured I should at least offer so I chanced looking at her again. “Why don’t you let me do that? My way to say thanks for toast and preserves, coffee,” my eyes slid through Gray to the window as I finished, “and everything.”
“That isn’t necessary, Ivey,” Grandma Miriam said and I looked at her.
She wanted me in town, out of her house and hopefully, as soon as I could manage it, out of her grandson’s life.
“It isn’t any trouble. I’m sure I could have it done in a few minutes and be out of your hair.”
“Got nothing else to do, child,” she replied quietly. “Now, you get on into town with Gray.”
In other words, get on wherever just get on.
I nodded and stood.
In short order I had my jacket on, my scarf on, my purse strapped on, Gray had my bag in the back of his truck and we were on our way to town.
It was very early morning and still dark so I still couldn’t figure out what it was, where he lived. Ranch or orchard. But it didn’t smell like ranch though I couldn’t say I knew what that smelled like. Still, if there was livestock close, it had to smell like something.
What I did see was that his truck was not only beat up it seriously needed a cleanup.
I took my mind off what I was certain in a weird but fascinating way would be cleaning up his truck and the fact that I really, really wanted to do it and I pulled myself together.
“How’s the cut?” I asked.
“Not the first. In this town, probably not the last. I’ll survive,” Gray replied again intriguingly and again I wanted to ask and again I wouldn’t.
“You stick around, she’ll come around,” he said quietly and I looked from the road to him.
He looked good in profile.
I already knew this. Still, it hit me and in a way I knew instinctively it always would hit me. If I lived a life that was the kind of life I was free to make connections and we connected, we held strong, I knew his beauty, no matter how time wore on it, would always hit me. It might eventually come as a surprise, still, there would be times it would hit me.
“Sorry?”
He glanced at me then back at the road. “You stick around awhile, Gran, she’ll come around.”
Oh my.
He wanted me to stick around. He wanted his Gran to have a chance to come around. He actually thought that would happen.
I looked back at the road too but when I did it, I did it fighting tears.
Gray kept talking.
“She’s had six men in her life, three of them good. Her Daddy, her husband and my father. All three of those men are dead.”
I closed my eyes.
His father was good, probably like him.
His father was also dead.
I did not like that.
Gray kept going and I opened my eyes.
“Leaves three sons who are no good. Part of how they’re no good, including my Dad, they got shit taste in women. Their choices but still, she bore the brunt of that. She’s cautious, trained that way by a mean Momma and then a lifetime of puttin’ up with bad women. But, you stick around, she’ll come around.”
His grandmother read me like a book. She’d never come around.