Page 105 of Worth the Risk

“Gray’s out back. I’ll assume you know where to go.” He points through the house to the back door and then walks down the pathway, Luke following on his heels. I enter and shut the door behind me.

I stand there and take in a deep breath.

I will not cry.

I repeat the words to myself as I walk through the familiar living room. Past the signs of a life well lived—photos of the two of them here and there, a half-built tower of Legos on the floor. Past dishes drying in the rack beside the sink—a coffee cup half-filled, an apple half-eaten.

After setting the bag of food on the counter, I stand there for the briefest of seconds to gather my scattered thoughts currently tinged by hurt.

I should just leave.

Grayson’s made it clear he’s done with me—the lies say that.

I should stay.

I want to go out there and confront him because he has no right to make me . . . want something, only to slam the door in my face.

The sound of the lawnmower pulls me to the back door when every part of my pride tells me I shouldn’t be where I’m not wanted.

When I open it, my breath catches. There is Grayson, shirtless, sweaty, and pushing the lawnmower from one side of the yard to the other. He moves slowly over the small patch of grass, his biceps flexing with each turn of the corner.

Domesticity has never been sexier.

The sight of him has never been more painful.

Eventually, he notices me, but even after he does, he keeps going until he’s finished with the yard.

“Hi.”

“Hey.” Head down, eyes focused on cleaning the mower.

“You aren’t working at the station,” I finally say, when he doesn’t say anything more.

“Nope.”

Okay. What’s going on here?

“You haven’t answered my texts, so I thought maybe you were on shift.”

“Nope. Just busy.”

I hate the dread that slowly trickles into my belly. He isn’t looking at me. He’s not really talking to me.

“Looks like Luke made a full recovery.” Now that? That puts a hitch in his step, but he still doesn’t say anything more. “You lied to me, Grayson. Luke said he hasn’t been sick.”

He grunts in response but still refuses to look my way as he fiddles with this and that on the lawnmower.

“Have I done something wrong?”

“Nothing you can help.”

He hoses off the mower and moves it to a shed in the far corner of the yard, then rolls the trashcans to the side of the house without another word.

I try not to take it personally. I try not to overthink what exactly has caused this shift in him—that he’s done with me and has moved on to the next person in line. When he finally walks my way, I try to engage him again.

Things just aren’t adding up, and every single one of them is making my stomach churn and chest constrict.

“I saw you the other day.”