Page 29

Astrid

Always, always I can rely on my brain.

But right now, it’s short-circuiting. I’m supposed to be teaching Grayson, telling him what to do in this situation, but for some reason, when he touched my wrist, words left me.

It was like he knew exactly what to do, how to slide his fingers along my skin, the right way to tease me, draw it out—and fuck , when he pressed his thumbs against my hips like that? Like he was just barely hanging onto his control?

I’m not sure anything like that has ever happened to me in the bedroom before, the sudden and complete arousal. If he had touched me then and there, I might have come for him within seconds.

But he didn’t. He kept teasing me, time going past in a weird clip—sometimes moving forward, sometimes stuttering to a complete stop. Particularly while I was waiting for him to move his hand again, to touch me in a new place.

Now, with his fingers just there, and my hand cupped over his, I feel like I can taste my heart in my throat, my body relaxing to the point of disorganization, like my organs have given up proper functioning to focus on what Grayson is doing to me.

We’ve been here before. He’s had his hand against me just like this.

Except, no— nothing like this. Every point of contact sparks. His fingers against my clit, my fingers against his, the sensation of his fingers, those knuckles bigger than mine, maybe even double the size. Feeling his hand there, the roughness of his skin, it makes me feel almost precious. Delicate.

Ravished.

Slowly, holding his gaze, I begin to move his fingers the way that I would move mine—alternating between wide, slow circles and tight, quick flicks.

With a start, I remember that I should be talking, so I rally myself, clear my throat, and speak through the intense flush over my face.

“Obviously,” I choke, eyes fluttering, finding it hard to think through the waves of sensation coursing through my body. “Everyone is different. So this-this is a good way to find out what she likes, okay? If she doesn’t want you to touch her right away, you can ask to watch her touch herself—that can be really hot.”

“It sounds hot,” Grayson says, gruffly, and his voice in my ear almost sends me right over the edge then and there.

It takes me a moment to recover, and I slow down our pace, returning to the wide, slow circles again.

“So, obviously, you know what the clit is?”

“I’m familiar,” he says, smiling at me. He’s propped up on his elbow, staring at me languidly, looking like he could be on the cover of a magazine right now. I look away from those warm eyes and focus on what I’m trying to do.

“Well,” I say, blinking. “Y-you don’t want to stay on it the entire time. Remind me to show you a diagram of it later, but it’s a lot b-bigger than you think, and it stretches down to the vaginal canal.”

“It does?”

I nod, feeling my hair tangle against his bicep. “It does. So even when a woman has an orgasm from penetration, there’s usually still clitoral stimulation. It stretches to either side of the vaginal opening.”

“Hmm,” Grayson says, then he’s dipping his hand down, pressing against the opening with a knuckle, and I arch against the feeling, instinctively bringing a hand to my mouth to keep from making a noise.

How is this even possible ? That the first night with him could be so…inattentive, and now he’s pressing every single button, even ones I didn’t know I had?

Grayson slides his fingers back up to my clit, and I realize my hand has fallen away, giving him no physical guidance. He goes on, copying the circles with an exacting pressure. I can’t think straight, and mindlessly, I reach up for his face, drawing his lips down to mine.

He kisses me and never stops with the consistent, steady pressure. With his tongue in my mouth, I come on his hand, body shaking against his. He holds me to him, pressing kisses against my hair and skin, then slowly winds down the motion, drawing out every last bit of the orgasm without me having to coach him on it.

When it’s finally over, he gathers me up and pulls my body against his, tucking my head under his chin. I breathe, relaxing more than I thought was possible, and just when I’m about to fall asleep, the ringer on his phone goes off—alerting us it’s time for him to get the girls from school.

Grayson rises from the bed, washes his hands in the bathroom, then returns to kiss me goodbye before darting out the door, and I’m left in the hotel room alone, heart still beating way too hard.

***

I shouldn’t be nervous, but I am.

“God, Astrid, you look like you’re about to barf,” Sloane laughs, popping her sunglasses up onto her head and peering at me. She’s wearing a soft mustard sweater and a pair of light-washed jeans. I’m in a hoodie and jean jacket, paired with leggings.

For some reason, I spent an unreasonable amount of time getting ready this morning, Googling trendy clothes and what’s lame and finding almost no usable information. I oscillated between desperately wanting to seem cool, and wondering why in the world I cared what a pre-teen thought.

Finally, after getting approval from Sloane, I settled on my outfit. Casual, but trendy.

I hope.

Callie comes barreling out the front door, and Grayson follows her. When I see him, I instantly feel his hands on me again—the rough scrape of his stubble over my neck—and I have to look away.

What in the world is it with him and sweatpants? Gray sweatpants shouldn’t be as appealing as they are on him, hugging his thighs and the area between. It’s just sweats and a T-shirt, but I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to slide my fingers into the waistband, push them down over his hips.

Fuck .

“Hi!” Callie says, reaching the door and waving. Sloane unlocks it and she hops in, sliding into the backseat. Grayson catches up a second later, already shaking his head. I watch as Sloane rolls down her window and Grayson settles an arm on the ledge, leaning in.

Suddenly, inexplicably, I am more jealous of my best friend than I have ever been in my life.

“Callie, you forgot your bag,” he says, swinging up a little bag through the window. Sloane catches it and hands it to the backseat.

“Oh,” Callie says, grabbing it without a care in the world. “Thanks.”

Grayson’s gaze shifts to me, and I realize I’m staring.

“Astrid, hi,” he says. My cheeks are impossibly warm— who am I? Not this woman. Not the one who blushes, who can’t stop looking at him, who can’t stop thinking about that fresh, clean, aloe-like scent he left behind in the hotel room yesterday.

“Hey,” I say, as casually as possible, because Sloane is looking between the two of us, and I know her journalism muscles are already flexing, her mind already working through what this strange exchange means.

“Oh,” Grayson straightens up, digs into his pocket, and pulls out a card, holding it through the window. “Here’s this. I called ahead to let them know you might be making some big charges today.”

I stare at him. He’s a professional athlete, of course, so it’s not like he’s broke, or living paycheck-to-paycheck, but how much does a goalie even make? Is it enough to drop an undetermined amount on a junior high homecoming dance?

“Thank you ,” Sloane says, singing the last word and plucking it from his fingers. With a little smirk in my direction, she flicks the card into my lap, then grins at Grayson. “I’m sure you trust Astrid to handle it.”

His eyes flick to mine. Then he swallows and says, “Sure.”

For fuck’s sake, he might as well wear a sign on his face that says Astrid Foster and I are messing around for how much information he’s giving Sloane right now.

“Sure,” she repeats cheekily, before glancing at me, her eyes wide. “Alright, see you later. We’re getting Callie a homecoming dress!”

With that, Grayson steps away from the car, and we peel backward out of the driveway. I catch his eyes in that moment between reverse and drive, when we’re hovering in the road, and hold it for a second too long as we drive away.

I immediately launch into a discussion with Callie so Sloane can’t grill me for details. It’s futile, anyway—she’s perceptive enough that I know there’s going to be a knock on my door later tonight, a look from her, a raised eyebrow.

When we swing into the mall parking lot twenty minutes later, Sloane kills the engine and jumps out, beaming and holding her arms out to Ruby Romano, who walks forward with a sure step and wraps Sloane up in her arms.

I’ve only met her on a few occasions, but Ruby is the kind of woman you remember. She’s a high-powered executive type, assertive and sharp. Just as perceptive as Sloane, but with a cooler edge. When I first met her, her hair was sleek and straightened, but now it’s a bit softer around the edges, some natural curls peeking through.

She’s gorgeous. Maverick Hawkins is a lucky man.

“Oh, I’m so excited!” Ruby says, brushing the hair out of her eyes with a single finger, gaze flicking to Callie. “Shopping for a girl—I’ve been deprived of this. And you’re so pretty—I remember you from the barbecue. This is going to be a lot of fun.”

Callie’s cheeks light up with a pink blush, and I know that if that compliment came from anyone else, she wouldn’t think it was genuine. But Ruby gives off the vibe of someone who wouldn’t waste her breath on fake platitudes.

I almost wish she’d give me a compliment. Something like, Astrid, your outfit strikes the perfect chord between put-together and not-even-trying.

But we just move together into the mall, with Ruby, Sloane, and Callie chatting about the dance, talking about her friends and if she knows what they’re wearing, if she has any ideas for what she might want to look for.

Ruby takes control of the operation right away, and Callie cycles through dresses quickly. The first is a white and blue floral A-line, which Callie doesn’t like, and Ruby says washes her out. The dresses keep coming: a deep mossy blue, a bright honeycomb, a sparkling cream. Lacey, chiffon, silk, satin. My eyes start to glaze over, and I’m glad I brought Sloane and Ruby, who consider each dress carefully, picking over the details and giving Callie the attention she deserves.

We break for lunch, and I dive into my salad, glad for the break from the sharp, intense perfumes of the dress stores.

Ruby stabs her fork into her stir-fry, saying, “You know what I think? I think we need to get out of the mall.”

“Ruby,” Sloane laughs, shaking her head, “it’s just homecoming—”

“Oh, please, Sloane,” Ruby says, waving her hand, “First—remember your homecoming? You were over there taking dance classes for it. And second, I need this. Let me have it. You have no idea what it’s like living with two boys who only care about hockey and chafe against anything nicer than a simple collared shirt.”

Sloane opens her mouth, raises her finger, but retreats by the end of Ruby’s argument, giving in.

“Callie?” she hikes an eyebrow. “What do you think? Ruby would like to take you to some nicer stores. Would you be comfortable with that?”

To my surprise, Callie turns to look at me, her eyes wide, like she genuinely wants to know what my answer is going to be. Like what I say could persuade her one way or the other.

I stab a few more pieces of spinach onto my fork, tilt my head side to side, and say, “What’s the worst that happens? We hate them and have to come back to the mall?”

Callie giggles and Ruby says, “That’s absolutely right, Astrid.”

Sloane eyes me, then says, “Oh well, I guess you’re right. It’s Grayson’s credit card, after all. Might as well take advantage of it.”

Six hours later, we’re all delirious from the shopping. Callie has a gorgeous sage green dress with a sweetheart neckline, the skirt ruffled with a matte fabric and the bust covered with a glittering, shimmering, almost iridescent material.

At the shop, she couldn’t stop turning around in the mirror, looking at herself, twirling to see the fabric move around her body. The smile on her face wouldn’t drop.

The dress was two thousand dollars. When it came time to pay, I swiped my own card, only using Grayson’s for the makeup and shoes. He’ll pay for her salon appointment the day of, for her to have her nails done. If he doesn’t look too closely at his statement, he’ll never even know the difference.

When we pull back into the driveway, Sloane and I get out to help Callie bring her things in. Rather than knocking, Callie strides right inside, and I realize it’s her house.

It’s her house, and she feels comfortable enough striding right inside, pushing open the door and kicking off her shoes, dropping her bags on the ground by the front door. Something I never would have expected from the girl in the bathroom, the girl who wanted nothing to do with Milwaukee at all.

We turn the corner to see the TV flashing over the opposite wall, pink and white, orange and blue. Tangled plays on the screen, Rapunzel dancing through a field of grass, but that’s not the real sight.

My eyes lock on Grayson on the couch, slumped against the cushions, his arm around Athena. The two of them are fast asleep, and she leans fully on him, her little body covered in a pink blanket that’s wrapped up around her fist.

Sleepily, slowly, Grayson’s eyes open, landing on me first.

He smiles, says in a low voice, “Hey.”

“We got my dress,” Callie says, in that quiet voice that’s reserved for late nights, for when your baby sister is sleeping a few feet away from you.

“That’s great.” Grayson’s eyes widen, and he glances side to side, as though realizing, for the first time, that I’m not standing alone in his living room.

Callie goes upstairs, holding her dress carefully in the crinkly plastic, and Sloane glances at me, that eyebrow raised, just like I knew it would be.

“What?” I ask, already hearing the defensiveness creep into my tone when we step out the front door a moment later.

“Oh, nothing ,” Sloane practically sings, hopping into the driver’s seat and starting the car. When I hop in next to her, she says, “Just your big, fat crush on Grayson O’Connor.”

“I do not—”

“Save it,” she laughs, shaking her head and turning to reverse down the driveway. “Astrid Foster, if I didn’t know any better, I might even go as far as saying that look in your eyes is something much more serious than a crush.”

“Well,” I say, biting my tongue and staring out the windshield. “Good thing you know better.”