Page 7 of Things I Wish I Said

Chapter five

GRAYSON

The hell?

I stand on the front porch of the Sinclair residence at a complete loss as to what to do after she slams the door in my face.

I frown before deciding to knock again, and I’m about to phone my mother and tell her I’m out when the door swings open one more time.

Fully expecting the girl to give me a repeat performance, I stand there, waiting for her to say something. With any luck, she’s changed her mind, and I can go on my way. Then the guilt my father tied around my neck like a noose will fall away and I’ll have fulfilled my obligation.

The girl—Ryleigh, if I remember correctly from my mother’s text—clears her throat.

Even with no hair, it doesn’t take long for me to see she’s beautiful. With prominent cheekbones and a heart-shaped face, she has the facial structure of an actress or a model, all smooth skin and angular lines. Big hazel eyes stare up at me over a pert nose and full, pink lips .

My gaze flickers lower, and my pulse leaps, finding her body every bit as impressive as her face.

Her dress might fit a little loosely on her frame, but her legs are bare.

They’re so long and toned, they seem to stretch on for miles while her chest fills the soft material with a swell of creamy skin rising above the neckline.

Fuck. Stop staring at her rack, you dickhead.

I jerk my gaze back to hers and rake a hand through my hair as I exhale a shaky breath. My earlier irritation has vanished, something ambiguous taking its place. I don’t know what I expected when I agreed to meet with her, but it wasn’t this.

I swallow when she starts to speak, focusing on her incredible eyes and the words coming out of her mouth instead of her tits because it seems like the right thing to do, all things considered.

Thank fuck I’m sober or I’d fail with flying colors.

“Uh, sorry about that. I wasn’t expecting you,” the girl—Ryleigh—says in a raspy tone that makes my toes curl.

I drag a hand over the back of my neck, tension coiling in the muscles beneath my skin. My mother told me she knew I was coming, so I’m not sure where the miscommunication lies. “I’m sorry. My mother told me you made an appointment?”

“Your mother?” she asks, her brow furrowing.

“Yeah. Victoria De Leon? She’s the cofounder of Wishing Well?”

The girl nods, and I get the sense she’s taking this all in like I am. I can practically see the wheels spinning inside her head. “Right. And your role in this is? ”

Hell, didn’t my mother tell her anything when they spoke?

“I’m Grayson De Leon, the potential fake boyfriend,” I say and instantly want to kick myself.

The potential fake boyfriend?

Could I sound any more like a fucking tool?

“You’re the fake boyfriend?” she asks, and I fight the urge to correct her and put an emphasis on “potential,” when I nod.

She laughs in answer, a shrill, startled sound that turns into a wheezing cough as she tries and struggles to catch her breath.

Alarm bells go off in my head, and I’m just about to step forward and—shit, I don’t fucking know—clear her airway, perform CPR, call for fucking help when she finally stops.

“I mean, you? Seriously?”

“Is there a problem?”

She laughs some more, then motions for me to step inside. “No. It’s just . . . well”—she waves her hands toward me—“you’re you, and I’m . . .” She bites her lip, and I frown. “Never mind,” she says, stifling her smile. “Just . . . come in, I guess.”

I guess?

This might be the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had.

I step inside the small ranch, taking in its modest furnishings and decor. Everything is bold and bright, painted in color and patterns from the coffee table to the entertainment unit, the paintings on the wall, and the fabric of the couch. Yet somehow, it works.

I glance back in front of me to find Ryleigh staring .

I’m cocky when it comes to baseball, and confident when it comes to chicks. Half the girls in Lincoln have thrown themselves at me at one point or another. But something tells me this chick is different.

She sinks down onto the couch and motions for me to have a seat, so I take the armchair across from her.

A throw blanket is draped over the cushions to hide the threadbare material.

Upon further inspection, several pieces in the room appear well-worn.

This is a family that doesn’t have a whole lot, quite different from the environment I grew up in, but the neighborhood is quaint, and the house is well-kept and inviting, so there’s that.

“Sorry,” she starts, seemingly more composed than moments ago. “I just didn’t realize they were sending the boyfriend today, much less you. When I called and set up this meeting, I assumed it was with Victoria to go over . . . I don’t know . . . the logistics?”

Logistics?

This chick makes having a boyfriend sound so clinical. I might be new to this whole fake boyfriend thing, but she doesn’t sound like a teenager at the end of her life desperate to experience love. It sounds more like a business deal than anything.

“Do you work for Wishing Well, and do you always help with granting wishes?” she asks before I can say anything.

“No and no.”

No point in sugarcoating the truth.

“Okay.” She narrows her eyes. “So why are you here? Why my wish? ”

I grunt, unprepared for these kinds of questions. Then again, I’m not really prepared at all. I spent last night getting high instead of thinking about this meeting. “It’s a long story.”

“I have to admit, I was surprised they granted my wish in the first place. When I sent that email it was basically a Hail Mary pass. I mean, what kind of charity gives someone a fake boyfriend?”

I loosen my tie a little more, unsure of what to say. Her candor is unexpected—disarming. “Yeah, well, this is a one-time thing.”

“Why?”

Because my mother’s lost her damn mind?

I shrug. “Look, occasionally, they grant special wishes. Yours was one of them,” I say. Call me crazy, but I don’t want her to know my whole life’s history.

She purses her lips. “I just wonder if it’s ethical.”

“Probably not.”

Which is exactly why it’s not in the books.

This is my mother’s little secret, a handshake deal if I choose to accept it, but this girl doesn’t need to know that.

Just thinking about it makes me feel a little like shit.

She’s sick, and rather than grant this wish out of the goodness of my heart, I’m only here to get my mother off my back and fulfill my father’s last wishes.

“Then why do it? I mean, why would a guy like you want to be a sick girl’s fake boyfriend?”

“A guy like me?” I scoff .

She motions toward me. “You’re insanely hot, which I’m sure you know. And athletic,” she adds, blatantly eyeing me now. Not so much like she’s checking me out. More in a clinical way, like an outside observer. “A guy like you doesn’t have trouble getting a date, much less a girlfriend.”

“What makes you so sure?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Please. At the very least, you know you’re hot.” She rolls her eyes. “And I can spot an athlete when I see one. Guys like you are at the top of the social hierarchy every single time. Most girls probably fall at your feet.”

I arch a brow. “Most girls?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But not you?”

A laugh bubbles from her lips. “I mean, technically I wished for you, so as much as I hate to admit it, I might as well be included in my assessment.”

I snort.

“Anyway, what I’m really getting at is, when they agreed to grant my wish, I expected someone a little less Flynn Rider and a little more . . . Quasimodo.”

The corner of my mouth twitches. “Are you seriously using Disney characters in your fake boyfriend analogy?”

“If it works, and what can I say? I have a thing for confident, slightly broody, but secretly wounded men, and Flynn Rider is hot.”

“It’s a cartoon, but whatever.” I laugh, unsure of what to make of her. It’s only been a couple minutes, and already, I’m not sure I’ve met a girl quite like her. “If you expected Quasimodo, why sign up in the first place?”

“Because I’m desperate, and when you have cancer”?she points a finger at herself?“you can’t afford to be picky.”

My brows rise, surprised by her candid admission, but admiring her for it all the same. Still, nothing she’s said since I got here gives me the impression she’s looking for romance. Ryleigh Sinclair doesn’t strike me as whimsical.

“What sport do you play?” She bites her lower lip, her gaze narrowing on my biceps. “I’m guessing football?”

I scoff. Fucking football.

“Maybe I don’t play a sport.”

“Don’t placate me, De Leon.”

I grin. “Are we on a last-name basis now?”

She shrugs. “I have to call you something, and it feels a little too soon for ‘boyfriend.’”

A low chuckle rumbles through my chest, surprising me. I don’t laugh a lot these days, so it’s really strange that this girl I barely know is bringing it out of me.

“That’s fair.” I drum my fingers on my thigh, thrown by her candor. “Maybe I’m just a gym rat.”

She purses her lips, as if considering this alternative. “Nope. You’re definitely giving jock vibes. So . . . sport. Which one?”

I grin, enjoying this exchange far more than I should. “Baseball. Easily the best and most challenging sport there is. ”

She huffs. “Debatable.”

I stare at her for a moment, noting the brilliant pattern in her hazel eyes that reminds me a lot of the childhood cat I used to have, Tigger. I’ve never seen someone with eyes quite like it.

My dad loved that damn cat.

I clear my throat. “So, about this boyfriend thing . . .”

“Listen, I don’t know what they told you, but I don’t want a boyfriend.”

My brow furrows. “You don’t want a boyfriend?”

“No. I mean, I do, but I don’t.” She growls and shakes her head in frustration. “Let’s put it this way. Cancer might be slowly killing me, but I’m still not pathetic enough to ask for a fake boyfriend, despite how my letter made it sound.”

I frown. “I’m not following. So, you’re not looking for love. Got it. What is it you want, then?” I ask, equal parts relieved and confused.