Page 27

Rilee

I work up my courage and knock softly on the door. It swings open, and Grayson is there, a small smile on his lips as he takes me in. He towers over me, wearing a pair of gray joggers and a fitted navy t-shirt that makes his eyes look impossibly blue. Goodness, he’s cute.

“Hey.” He grins.

“Hi.”

I should feel self-conscious around him … our last encounter was a threesome in Caleb’s truck—yet I feel completely comfortable. Go figure. I guess I’d been worried for nothing.

Grayson pauses, his brows drawing together. “Everything okay?”

I nod and take a step back. “I’m sorry,” I stutter, “Are we good? Are you and Caleb good?”

A lazy smile crosses Grayson’s lips. “We talked about it. Everything’s good. But I promise to be on my best behavior if it’ll make you more comfortable.”

Now I’m the one with a confused expression. “You guys talked?”

He nods. “Did you not?”

“No, we did,” I stammer. “I guess I’m just surprised…”

Grayson smiles one of those easy, relaxed smiles that I’ve come to love from him. “We talked last week. And as long as you’re happy, then we’re happy.”

Warmth spreads through me. Leave it to Caleb to be so completely selfless.

“The dude’s pretty generous. Because if you were mine…” Grayson’s gaze darkens. “I don’t think I’d be quite as accommodating.”

I blush again.

Grayson takes me in his arms, treating me to what can only be described as a bear hug.

This time, I relax. It feels incredible to be held by him in this way.

Knowing I have two protectors, two sexy men who want to see to my pleasure and happiness…

it’s a lot to process. Was this a position I saw myself in?

No . Am I happy and curious about where things could go? Yes .

I remind myself silently not to overthink things.

When he lowers me to the ground and sets me on my feet again, I lift on my toes to press a kiss to his stubbled cheek.

“What are you up to?” he asks.

I hold up the bottle of nail polish. “I was about to paint my nails.”

He smiles. “Want help?”

“Really?”

He shrugs, taking the bottle from me. “I’ve got steady hands.”

I raise a brow. “You do realize painting nails is an art form, right? Not like… goalie reflexes.”

He glances up, eyes unreadable. “Painting’s painting.”

And just like that, my insides do something extremely unprofessional.

Because Grayson’s voice is low and calm and slightly amused.

He’s sitting cross-legged across from me on his bedroom rug, sleeves pushed up, forearms bare.

He’s all stillness and slow blinks and quiet focus.

The guy who rarely speaks more than five words in a row is now cradling my hand in his like it’s something fragile.

He presses the brush to my thumbnail with surgical precision.

“You’ve definitely done this before,” I mutter.

“I have sisters,” he says, eyes still on my hand.

Oh.

Of course he does.

Of course Grayson’s the kind of guy who paints his sister’s nails and probably also murdered any boy who looked at them sideways.

He moves on to my index finger, barely touching the skin, totally focused.

I should look away.

Instead, I watch him watch me.

“Why this color?” he asks after a moment.

I blink. “Huh?”

“The polish. Why this one?”

I glance down at the soft, dusty pink. “It’s called ‘Rose After Hours.’ Figured it sounded like who I want to be. Someone chill. Put-together. Like I didn’t cry over a dosage calc quiz yesterday.”

His mouth quirks. “You’re more put-together than you think.”

The compliment shouldn’t land the way it does. But from him? It hits deep.

I swallow, heart thudding as he blows gently on my fingertips to help them dry.

Big mistake.

Because now I’m watching Grayson Cole—sexy goalie, human teddy bear—literally blowing cool air across my hand like he’s casting a spell.

And yeah, I’m toast.

“I think you missed your true calling,” I whisper, trying not to combust.

“Oh yeah?”

“You could start a side hustle. Nail tech to the emotionally unstable.”

He looks up, a tiny grin playing at the corner of his mouth. “Only if you’re my first client.”

My face warms.

And somehow—without any big moves or grand gestures—Grayson makes me feel wanted.

Seen.

Cherished in a way that’s quiet but all-consuming.

“You want me to do your toes next?” he teases.

I smirk. “Absolutely not.”

He just shrugs, already reaching for the top coat.