Page 123 of Cockpit
“What’s all this, buddy?” Gray asks, struggling to be gracious to his son while still resenting me. He tries to pick Luke up but has his hands batted away.
“I am your server this evening,” Luke says and tries not to giggle. When he fails, and his laughter echoes in the space around us, it’s almost as if an invisible weight has been lifted. As if Luke’s laughter is the encouragement we need to maybe take the first step to talking. “It isn’t kind of you to touch the servers.”
“It isn’t, is it?” Grayson chuckles. “What’s going on?”
“I wanted you and Sidney to have a nice dinner before the final vote . . . and before she has to leave.” And it’s out there. I swallow over the lump in my throat and hate Grayson’s wince. “I thought a romantic dinner without children present was very important. And without people in town knowing so you don’t mess up the vote.”
“Without children present?” Grayson says and lifts his brow.
“Servers are not children.” He laughs again, and another piece of my heart falls at this little boy’s feet. “And this server selected every item on your menu tonight, so don’t throw tomatoes if you don’t like it.”
“We promise not to, especially since said server doesn’t like tomatoes,” Grayson says and winks.
We are both given the biggest grin, which is followed by a nod. “I’ll leave you two to get settled, then. Oh, and wine is there. Breathing when it doesn’t have lungs.” He rolls his eyes. “But I’m not old enough to touch it, so that part you have to do yourself.”
“Yes, sir,” Grayson says. “May I ask who’s helping you?”
“Women.” It’s all he says and grins.
Emerson. Betsy. Dylan. My bet’s on them.
“Thank you, kind sir. Tell the women thank you, too,” I say and turn to look at Grayson. He quickly averts his eyes, but not before I catch the appreciative once-over he gives me.
Silence settles. Shifts. Smothers. We stand here, both more than aware of the millions of unspoken words that need to be said. We are also aware that doing so would risk disappointing a little boy with a wild imagination and a huge heart, who only wants the best for his father.
Grayson clears his throat and I jump. It’s ridiculous, but I’m so nervous.
And then he speaks.
“You look stunning,” he murmurs and steps in to press the softest of kisses against my cheek. My body hums from the slight touch, and before it even starts, I know that this evening might be the harde
st one I’ve had in a long time.
Hard to pretend I don’t care that I’m leaving soon. To put on a brave face for Luke while I’m slowly dying inside. To know there’s so much here worth fighting for, and yet I haven’t seen Grayson lace up his gloves or pull up the ropes to step foot in the ring.
“You have one hell of a son, Grayson Malone.”
“I do, don’t I?” Pride lights his eyes. “Shall we?” He pulls out my chair and hands me my napkin before he takes his seat across from mine and pours the cabernet.
The hangar is expansive. Its windows are a good two stories up on the corrugated steel walls, allowing the dusk to seep into the space. There is a plane in the far corner. It’s small and white with blue stripes. Behind us, there is what appears to be a set of steps that lead to a loft.
It isn’t a setting I’m used to, but it’s one that fits the moment and the man across from me perfectly.
“Thank you,” I murmur as I take a sip of wine and meet his eyes above the rim. They hold. And search. And question. But what they search for, I have no idea.
Luke serves us his favorite gourmet salads, which are really just lettuce, balsamic dressing, and croutons, while Grayson and I make small talk. The weather. How busy he has been at work. How the voting is going and all the elevated press we never expected but are so thrilled to have.
Luke has set the stage for a romantic date, and we play the part for him, but every soft smile when he comes near, or interaction to make him laugh, is with an undercurrent of tension and longing.
Of wanting to lean across the table and press a kiss to Grayson’s lips. To connect with him in a real way. Everything thus far—from conversation to eye contact to touch—has been light and impersonal, and it kills me not to tell Grayson to be mad at me. To scream at me. To call me every horrid name I know I deserve.
But then I smile when I see Luke carrying in our entrées. Slices of pizza. Grayson’s laugh echoes off the concrete floors as Luke beams with pride.
“It’s your favorite!” Grayson says and then waits until Luke has ever so carefully set the plates in front of us before he pulls him in for a huge hug.
“Not entirely,” Luke says through his giggle. “I only like cheese. I made sure there was pepperoni on there for you.”
“How noble of you, sir.” Grayson plants a big kiss on his cheek and then tickles him some more.
