Page 12 of Stone Coast (Tyson Wild Thriller)

" I 'll order your favorite. Lasagna from Anthony's," Grayson said as we stepped into the foyer of his house. The grin on his face just couldn't be contained.

"I thought you said you were going to cook for me?" I couldn't help but harass him a little.

"I'll cook for you if you want, but… I'm kinda hungry, and you’re not really gonna pass up Anthony's, are you?"

I shrugged. "If you say it's my favorite, then it can't be half bad."

"Anthony’s is the best Italian on the island. Trust me. You'll love it."

He pulled his phone from his pocket and made the call as we stepped into the living room.

I soaked in the space for the first time. "This is a nice house. "

Grayson smiled, and just as he was about to speak, someone answered at the restaurant. "Yeah, I'd like to place a delivery order."

His place was in the exclusive neighborhood of Sapphire Shores. It backed up to a private man-made beach. Floor-to-ceiling window walls offered a view of the pool and the teal waves beyond. The sun had dipped over the horizon, and the pinkish-purple of sunset faded to gray.

The home was a masterpiece of modern architecture—clean lines and cantilevered spaces.

Modern yet cozy. It looked like a combination of Frank Lloyd Wright and John Lautner.

Large windows, skylights, and bespoke wood-paneled accents.

The furniture was mid-century modern, and bleached reclaimed plank flooring lined the home.

A large 77-inch flatscreen occupied a wall in the living room, and a state-of-the-art surround sound system gave a theater experience.

The place was sleek and stylish. I figured the doctor business was good. A place like this didn’t come cheap.

It was a far cry from my little boat, and nobody in their right mind would opt for the Intrepid over this.

This was spectacular. Of course, nothing beats living right on the water if you can deal with everything that goes along with it and the lack of space.

It forces you to simplify your life. Choose what's essential.

A place like this, you could start collecting a lot of things you don't need.

Something deep within me liked the idea of minimalism. I was unrestrained. I could pick up and go. If I didn't like the scenery, I could change it .

A place like this was putting down roots. Not always a bad thing. But in a way, it was an anchor. In the short time I'd been conscious, and given what I knew about my past, it made sense that I was hesitant to settle down. It just didn’t seem appealing.

"Make yourself at home," Grayson said in between dealing with the restaurant. His attention returned to the phone. "Are you ready for the card number?"

He gave them the credit card, then ended the call.

"It will be here within 45 minutes," Grayson said. "Would you like a glass of wine? You know I’ve got your favorite Merlot."

"Why not? I should try all of my favorites, shouldn't I?"

Grayson smiled. "I just want to take this opportunity to remind you that I'm your favorite."

I laughed.

"You'll see. I'm irresistible. Give it time."

I gave him a skeptical glance just to give him a hard time. I had to admit, he’d been growing on me over the past week, and he was trying really hard.

Grayson moved into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of wine from the rack, and uncorked it.

I followed him. He let it breathe for a moment, then poured two samples and swirled them around.

He handed a glass to me, and I sniffed the bouquet, then took a sample swig.

It tasted great to me. Not too dry, not too sweet.

Then again, I had no frame of reference.

I gave him a nod of approval, and he filled my glass .

"Just one," he said. "You probably shouldn't overindulge in your current condition.”

"What condition is that?" I asked, growing defensive. I didn’t want to be thought of as diminished in some capacity.

"I'm just saying you should probably ease back into this."

"Was I a big drinker before?"

"I wouldn’t say you were a big drinker," he said, looking for the right words. By his tone, I gathered I was fond of adult beverages. "But let's just say you weren’t a lightweight."

We paused and stared at each other for a moment.

He lifted his glass. "To having you back."

"To being back," I said.

We clinked glasses, and I took another sip of wine.

"Did I ever talk about my work?" I asked.

"Here and there. Not much. Every now and then, you’d talk about an annoying coworker who’d try to steal clients, or you’d complain about how much traveling you had to do.

But for the most part, you left it at the office.

That was one of the things we agreed upon.

Don't bring problems home. You don't want to hear about the woman with two kids who's dying of blood cancer at 35, and I don’t want to hear about how annoying Bob is. "

"Did I seem happy?"

"With your job?"

I nodded .

"I guess," he said, uncertain. "I mean, you were dedicated. Sometimes too much, I thought. I mean, I never wanted to get up in your business, but now that we’re talking about it, you did work a lot.

You were gone quite often. It seemed like you bent over backward for those people.

And that's fine, but I think they could compensate you a little better than they have been. "

"Did I complain about my salary?"

"We never talked about that in particular. Who knows, maybe you’re a bazillionaire, and you’ve got it all socked away somewhere?" He smiled.

The doorbell rang.

Grayson's brow knitted with surprise. "That was fast."

He set his wineglass down, excused himself, then hustled out of the kitchen and made his way across the living room into the foyer.

He pulled open the door and gunshots erupted. The deafening bangs echoed throughout the house.