Page 67 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
“You’re right. It isn’t. Let me start over.” His grin widens. “Good morning, Dylan.”
I laugh. “Good morning, Grady.”
“I’m going to apologize in advance for this, but I’d like to know if you have any plans today.”
“If I didn’t, your approach is telling me I should pretend I do,” I play along.
“No, it isn’t that bad.” He chuckles. “It’s just my mother scheming to meet the girl who’s staying at my house and make an excuse for me to show up to a family Sunday dinner. When my dad drove me home last night, he was asking about you . . . so I should have expected an invitation from my mom like the one I just received.” He holds up his cell as if I can read the text or email from where I stand.
“For what?”
“They’re having a barbecue at the lake house. They invited a bunch of people, so don’t worry, it won’t just be you and me and them trying to figure out what’s going on between us . . . but you were invited.”
Invited. As a friend or as . . .?
“To Sunday dinner during the day?”
“Yes. Something like that.” His dimples deepen and every part of me wants to melt at the little-boy appeal they give to such a virile man’s body.
“The lake house?” I ask, my first thought is that there’s water, which means wearing a bathing suit, and bathing suits and I don’t get along in the least. Or rather, we do get along but the mirror and me wearing a bathing suit aren’t exactly the best of friends.
And my second thought is I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on between us, so it isn’t fair for his family to know before I do.
“Yes, the lake house. Sunshine. A rope swing over the water. Good food.” He shrugs and smiles. “You can’t stay locked away writing forever, can you?”
“Actually, I can.” I laugh, thinking of how many days I’ve felt like a vampire because I’m knee-deep in an album and hardly see the sun.
“But I won’t let you.” He grins. “Grab your suit and sunscreen. I’m not letting you say no.”
Bathing suit.
The two words I dread more than many others.
And looking around at the perfect bodies on display, my insecurities are justified and then some. There’s Grant and his wife, Emerson. A shirtless Grant is a perfect example of why the Malone boys seem to have the reputation for being unfairly gifted in the looks department. And then there’s Emerson, who even at a few months pregnant, looks stunning with her little baby bump.
Next up is Grayson and his mini-me son, Luke. The two are more than adorable together, but I shouldn’t expect anything less, considering I’m convinced that there isn’t a rogue gene in this family.
There’s a myriad of other friends, too, some from Grady’s fire station, I believe, but they are floating out on the water on inner tubes, so I’ve yet to meet them beyond a wave across the distance.
“You have a lovely place here. The scenery is incredible.” And it is. Pine trees line the water’s edge, and the sun glistens off the lake. It looks like a postcard.
“It is, isn’t it?” Betsy Malone, Grady’s mother, stares at me with a soft smile on her lips and excitement in her eyes. “So, Grady tells me you’re a songwriter?”
“Yes.”
“And he met your brother at football camp? Do I have that right?”
I smile. “Yes.”
“And your parents live in Los Angeles too?”
I hope she doesn’t notice the stiffening of my smile. It’s not always the most comfortable to admit I have no clue where my dad is and the only reason I know my mom’s whereabouts is because the address of her latest rehab facili
ty is on the bill sitting in my inbox. “Yes, in the Los Angeles area,” I lie with ease to hide my discomfort.
“And are you staying in Sunnyville long?”
“Leave her alone, Mom. You’re going to scare the poor woman off before Grady has a chance to,” Grayson says as he leans over to steal a piece of watermelon off the table where we’re sitting.
