They arrived at Camille's Table just before one. The restaurant was one of Austin's quieter gems—modern rustic decor with warm wooden beams. The space was intimate but lively, with low conversation buzzing over a gentle jazz playlist. Waitstaff in crisp white aprons glided between tables, balancing plates of lemon-drizzled chicken and bowls of handmade pasta. Natural light poured through expansive windows, illuminating gold fixtures and rustic exposed brick walls, whitewashed brick, and polished brass accents that caught the light streaming through the tall windows. The scent of rosemary focaccia, roasted garlic, and lemon butter filled the air. The hum of conversation, punctuated by clinks of silverware and bursts of laughter, gave the room a comfortable energy. It wasn't a place for power lunches, but it was still upscale enough to require a reservation, especially during the midday rush.
Grayson held the door for his mother and Marybelle, letting the cool indoor air brush past him as they entered. Charlotte took the lead, already at the host stand, and greeted the maître d' like an old friend. Grayson and Marybelle trailed behind, mid-conversation about a marketing pitch gone off the rails.
"I told them the campaign needed more community integration, not less," Marybelle was saying, eyes flicking around the space. "But no, let's just slap our logo on a mural and call it meaningful."
Grayson smirked. "Sounds about right."
The maître d' motioned toward a table in the corner. As they approached, Grayson's steps slowed. A woman was already seated at their table, legs elegantly crossed, sipping from a glass of white wine like she belonged in a magazine spread.
Grayson blinked once, hard. Then again.
"Damn that woman is good," he muttered under his breath.
Marybelle, catching the line, stifled a knowing laugh. "You should've seen this coming," she whispered, amusement sparkling in her voice. "Although… I'll admit, I didn't think she'd move this fast."
"Me either," he murmured as his jaw clenched.
Elizabeth stood when they arrived. She was impossible to ignore. She was five-eleven, slim-waisted, and had curves that knew exactly where to fall. Her leopard-print dress, form-fitting with a crew neckline, left little to the imagination, the hem landing right below her knees. A gold chain bracelet shimmered at her wrist, and her red heels gave her just enough height to look Grayson in the eye without tilting her chin. Her Jet black hair was styled in a bob cut, and her makeup was perfectly contoured.
"Charlotte, hello," she cooed, embracing Grayson's mother with open arms. "You look radiant."
Already stepping to the opposite side of the table, Grayson lowered himself into his seat with deliberate avoidance.
"Grayson," Elizabeth said sweetly, clearing her throat as she reached toward him.
He didn't move. Didn't look up.
Undeterred, she shifted to Marybelle next. "And Marybelle! What a surprise. I didn't know you'd be joining us."
Marybelle offered a polite but shallow side hug, a thin smile plastered to her lips. "Wish I could say the same."
Elizabeth's smile wavered, but only for a second.
"I was in the neighborhood," she explained as she returned to her seat, folding one leg over the other with practiced elegance. "When Charlotte invited me to join you, I just couldn't say no."
"Oh, did she now?" Grayson asked dryly, lifting the menu like a shield between them.
Behind her own menu, Charlotte said nothing, just tilted her head ever so slightly, and pretended to be reading.
Elizabeth didn't skip a beat. "Tell me, how was New York? We haven't had a chance to catch up."
Grayson didn't lower the menu. "What would we need to catch up on? If it's about the Gala, talk to George. He'll brief you."
From across the table, Charlotte dropped her menu an inch and narrowed her eyes at her son.
Elizabeth pouted, lips pressing together. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to step on any toes. I know how important the Gala is to your family and the community."
"She just wants to assist you, Grayson," his mother said, smoothing her napkin into her lap.
"Yeah, Grayson…" Marybelle leaned toward him, voice dripping in mock sultriness. "She just wants to assist you."
He nudged her with his elbow, muttering under his breath, "You're not helping."
Marybelle gave him an innocent blink.
Charlotte clasped her hands. "Actually, I've been thinking that your house could use a bit of… refreshing. Elizabeth does wonderful work. She's graciously offered to help."
Elizabeth leaned forward, her icy blue eyes locking on him. "Party planning may be my forte, but I also do interiors for homes, offices, and commercial spaces. I'd love to help elevate yours."
Grayson frowned, fingers tightening around the edge of the menu. "Mother, my house doesn't need 'elevating.' And you can't just volunteer people to redesign someone else's home."
Charlotte gave him a sweet, practiced smile, the kind that warned him not to push this further. "Of course, darling. I hear you. It's your house."
But her fingers were crossed on the table in front of her.
He exhaled slowly. "Fine. But don't touch my office. And Stay out of my bedroom."
Elizabeth clapped her hands softly. "Wonderful. I'm sure we'll have it looking so stylish. Leave everything to me, Grayson. You're in good hands."
Grayson glanced over his shoulder for the waiter, searching for rescue.
"Well, looks like the little spider caught herself a fly," Marybelle whispered gleefully.
"Shut up," he muttered.
The waiter appeared, and Grayson immediately ordered a neat Bourbon. The man returned moments later, and Grayson downed the drink in a single, controlled swallow. He signaled for an iced tea next. Unfortunately, he still had meetings ahead.
They all placed their food orders, and two separate conversations were unfolding. Grayson was pretending not to notice Elizabeth, who constantly tried to insert her comments into the discussion at every opportunity about work matters she knew nothing about.
Meanwhile, the other conversation involved Elizabeth buttering up his mother with ideas for his home. Internally, Grayson was seething. The nerve of this woman to come in and try to redesign his home! And his mother had practically handed her the golden ticket to do so.
By the time the waiter returned with their meals, Grayson felt like saying fuck it all with the rest of his day and just having a drink.
The meals were down: shrimp scampi for him, chicken penne for Marybelle, grilled salmon and vegetables for his mother, and Elizabeth? A Caesar salad. No chicken. Grayson stared at the plate when it arrived. There was no protein, no substance. What kind of adult voluntarily ordered a salad that sad?
He was seconds from saying something when his phone buzzed. Glancing down, his brows lifted in relief. A name popped up that softened the line of his jaw.
Answering in his usual deep professional tone, he stood. "Steel here."
The voice on the other end was silk wrapped in sunshine.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important," Olivia said.
Grayson's lips curled despite himself. He shot up from his chair.
"Hold on," he said into the phone. "I have to take this." Then, to the table, "Excuse me."
Charlotte raised a brow. "I hope it's nothing serious, son."
"Not serious. But important." He said firmly.
He weaved his way through the dining room to a quiet corner near the bar's lounge area and lowered himself into one of the plush armchairs.
"Apologies," he said, "for the wait."
"You're always making me wait," Olivia teased, her voice soft and close even over the phone.
His smile deepened. "Now, now. I don't make you wait on everything, do I?"
Grayson could vividly imagine the rosy hue spreading across her cheek, cascading down her neck like a gentle wave of warmth. He settled into the side of the plush armchair, his body sinking slightly into its soft fabric, anticipation hanging in the air as he patiently awaited her response.
"I'll give you that," she murmured, her tone dropping a degree. "You don't make me wait for everything."
"Too bad, so sad. I am somewhere else, and you're in Austin," said in a sing-song tone.
His free hand flexed against his thigh. "That's because you wouldn't tell me where you were going?
"Uh-Uh... you actually didn't ask where I was going. You assumed I was going back to Chicago," she states
He huffed. You made me assume."
"You assumed wrong. A fault of your own, not mine," she said, smug.
"Touché, Little Fox." He chuckled, shaking his head. "We're going to have to talk about this later."
"Aren't we talking now?"
"I mean, when I can speak freely. I'm… not exactly alone."
"What are you now, a secret spy?"
"I could be James Bond," he said in a bad British accent.
She laughed softly and dangerously. That laugh lit up something deep in him, sharp and wanting.
"You're not supposed to say you're a spy on an unsecured line, Mr. Bond." Her smile was still in her voice.
"I have so many questions," he muttered.
"Go back to work, 007," she giggled, and she hung up.
Grayson stared at the phone, then texted back:
Grayson:You wound me.
Little Fox:LOL… Work.
He pocketed the phone and rubbed his cheeks. He'd been smiling so long they ached. When he returned to the table, his face was a mask of calm again. He picked up his fork.
"I take it everything's okay?" Charlotte asked, her voice light but probing.
"Yes. Why?" Concern crossed his face.
"Well, it took a while. I sent Marybelle to check on you. She said it sounded… heated."
Grayson glanced at his sister. She smiled, the picture of innocence.
"I just said it sounded like a negotiation. Didn't want to interrupt."
He gave her a pointed look, then turned to his mother. "It was a deal I couldn't back out of. Not finalized yet, but I think it'll swing in my favor."
Charlotte gave a proud nod. "You have Steel blood. There's nothing you can't manage."
Grayson took another bite of his shrimp, hoping the conversation would drift away. It didn't. But eventually, mercifully, the check arrived.
They exchanged their farewells in the spacious, echoing lobby of the office. The polished marble floors echoed with the soft murmur of conversations and the distant hum of office chatter. Fortunately, Elizabeth wasn't trailing behind them this time. However, she did make sure to announce her impending visit to his home in a few days to take "measurements." Marybelle leaned in close, her voice a conspiratorial whisper and a sly smile, and said that those measurements were likely of his body. With that thought lingering in the air, Grayson and Marybelle stepped into the sleek, metallic elevator, the doors sliding shut with a quiet whoosh. The gleaming elevator, its mirrored walls reflecting their silent expressions. They rode back up in a hushed quiet, the only sound being the soft whir of the elevator's ascent, until Grayson finally exhaled a deep, contemplative sigh.
"What do you want, Belle?"
She grinned like a fox with feathers in her teeth. "Oh, no, no, no, big brother. This conversation requires your best damn wine, and your black card."
"And my black card?" Huffed crossing his arms.
She held out her hand. "Don't act surprised. Why spend mine when I can blackmail yours?"
Grayson pulled out his wallet. "To think I used to believe you were the sweet one."
"I am sweet." She took the card and winked. "I'll see you around seven."
She stepped off on her floor, humming.
Alone again, Grayson leaned back against the elevator wall, ticking off fingers.
"Let's see… ambushed lunch, forced interior designer, my girlfriend dodging location reveals, and now sisterly extortion. It's only Monday."
When the elevator dinged open, George was already waiting with his iPad, a hot coffee, and two aspirin in hand.
Grayson took both, no questions asked, and followed him down the hall.
This day wasn't over. But damn it, when it was he was going to enjoy that drink.
By the time the sun sank behind the hills, Grayson was home, showered, and half a glass of whiskey away from letting the day's chaos slip from his shoulders.
His post-work ritual had been short but necessary. An hour in his home gym, converted from one of the spare bedrooms on the second floor, had helped burn off the irritation that had simmered since lunch. It was outfitted with sleek, custom black equipment, full-length mirrors, a reinforced wall lined with resistance bands, shelves of kettlebells, and a row of ceiling-mounted TRX anchors. Free weights in perfect rows, and a sound system built to drown out whatever the day tried to bring in. he lighting was soft, clean, and adjustable because Grayson liked precision even in his workouts. No distractions. No nonsense.
Afterward, he took a long, hot shower and now sat in his study, barefoot, dressed in a black cashmere sweater and jeans. His damp hair curled slightly at the edges. The study's built-in bookshelves flanked either side of his large walnut desk, stacked neatly with architectural portfolios and worn hardbacks on leadership and design theory. Grayson's fingers moved across his keyboard as the last few emails of the day found their destinations. A jazz playlist played softly from the speaker system, just loud enough to smooth the edges of silence.
Then the doorbell rang.
He paused and glanced at the time: 7:11. A moment later, a low murmur of voices floated up from the kitchen.
He sent one final email, hit "send," and rose from the desk, stretching briefly before padding barefoot down the hall toward the staircase. The scent of wine drifted through the air, and the sound of laughter, one familiar and teasing, the other warm and maternal, guided him.
Marybelle's laugh was the first thing he heard when he stepped inside. She was leaning against the kitchen island, dressed in an oversized turquoise T-shirt with a cut collar that dipped off her shoulder, revealing the bright pink strap of her sports bra. Leggings in the same hot pink hugged her legs, and her hair was in a haphazard topknot that somehow still worked for her.
Across the island, Denise, his long-time housekeeper, placed wine glasses and a bottle of wine on the counter while animatedly chatting about her grandson's school play. She moved easily, her soft frame dressed in a gray button-down and crisp white apron, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a tight braid.
Denise had been with him almost as long as he'd owned the house. One of the first people he hired was after closing on the property. She was warm but efficient, a sharp woman with no time for drama, exactly what he needed back then. And exactly who had somehow become family.
He'd lost more housekeepers and personal chefs over the years than he cared to admit, mostly because of Sasha. The chaos his ex had stirred up was legendary: screaming matches, false accusations, tears on cue, and the occasional shattered plate for emphasis. She'd run off staff with her antics, one by one, except Denise.
Denise had stood tall through all of it. Calm. Unshaken. Professional. She refused to be bullied, refused to be manipulated. And Grayson never forgot it.
She was more than a housekeeper now. She was loyal. Legacy.
Grayson smiled, leaning against the doorway.
"Well… I hope that's not the good wine we're wasting on you," he said, his voice playfully dry.
Denise gave him a side-eye without missing a beat. "Mr. Steel, you only have good wine. Your mother insists we keep it well stocked in this house."
He stepped in, reaching to take the bottle from her hands. "Ugh. This is not her house."
Marybelle laughed and reached for a freshly poured glass. "Maybe not, dear brother. But you and I both know she's in it more than you." She raised her glass in a mock toast. "To Mama Steel—queen of unauthorized redecorating."
Grayson chuckled and poured himself a glass, lifting it to his lips. The wine had smooth, velvety, dark fruit and was dangerously easy to drink. Damn. Denise really did know where the good stuff was.
"Mmm. That may be right," he said after a sip, "but that doesn't give her the right."
Marybelle shrugged and took another drink. "True. "She means well. Always has. But once she's got an idea in her head? It's like trying to redirect a train." Only Dad could change it… and it was touch and go even then."
Grayson nodded. His mother wasn't known for backing down. She was warm, generous, and fiercely loyal, but she bulldozed anything in her path when it came to her children or her legacy.
Grayson nodded slowly, watching the wine as it caught the kitchen lights. "I know. Doesn't mean I have to like it."
Marybelle's posture softened slightly, her expression more reflective than teasing. "You don't. But doing these little things… it helps her feel close. To us. To Dad. And probably to you the most."
Grayson stared into his wine glass. "Yeah," he murmured.
A beat passed between them, quiet but thick with mutual understanding. Then Grayson tipped his head toward her. "Still, I don't see you letting her redecorate your condo."
Marybelle's grin was instant, her eyes dancing. "Oh, that's because she didn't."
She took another long sip, adding, "She redid my wardrobe instead."
Grayson blinked. "Seriously?"
"She Marie Kondo'd my closet while I was at a client lunch. When I returned, everything was color-coded, and my sweatpants were missing.
His head jerked back with a laugh. "Wait—what? When?"
She followed him as he turned and headed toward the living area.
Grayson's home was clean-lined and modern-contemporary, with thoughtful touches that made it feel more like a sanctuary than a showplace. The living room was a cool blend of tans, creams, and soft grays, with slate and warm brass touches. The porcelain tile slab wall, veined with subtle marble streaks, held the mounted flat screen like a centerpiece in a minimalist painting. A cream L-shaped couch wrapped around the room, and modern floating shelves held curated art books and travel finds.
Marybelle flopped down on the couch, kicked off her shoes, and curled her legs beneath her.
"Do you remember that Chicago trip a few months ago?" she asked, swirling her wine glass.
Grayson sat on the other side of the couch, crossing one leg casually over the other. "Chicago?" His mind drifted immediately to Olivia.
Grayson's mind immediately flashed to Olivia. He couldn't remember anything but the time he went on a Date and the hide-and-seek game in Chicago.
Marybelle's voice pulled him back. "You were supposed to take that meeting with me. Big account with Vince Cup Inc.?"
Grayson vividly recalled the whirlwind of back-to-back meetings in the bustling city of Chicago. On the night in question, he had confided in his sister, expressing his need to escape for a brief respite from the relentless pace. They had one final meeting scheduled that evening with Vince Cup Inc., a medium-sized company poised on the brink of significant success. They sought recommendations on innovative marketing strategies and technological advancements expertise that only Grayson's company could provide. Grayson had every intention of attending the meeting. However, fate intervened when he first stepped into the dimly lit pub and sat beside Olivia.
The atmosphere was lively, filled with the hum of conversations and the clinking of glasses. Grayson and Olivia struck up a conversation about sports, their words punctuated by cheers and groans from the game playing on the TV screens mounted above the bar.
Afterward, they moved to the dartboard, laughter and playful banter filling the air as they took turns aiming. As the clock ticked closer to the start of the meeting, Grayson knew he should leave to arrive on time. Yet, something kept him anchored to his seat. He remembered hastily sending his sister a cryptic text message, hinting at an urgent matter that had arisen and asking her to cover for him.
The night stretched on, and Grayson ended up staying until closing time. In the end, they didn't even exchange phone numbers, only parting with a warm handshake that lingered in his memory.
"Oh. That," he said, trying not to smile.
"Yeah. You bailed last minute and told them I'd handle it. Which I did flawlessly, might I add. But while we were gone, Mom flew up to Chicago for a surprise visit to us...really for me, and dragged me shopping. Called it 'a wardrobe upgrade for the face of the company's creative branch.'"
"It can't be that bad."
While you were skipping in Chicago," she said, "Mom took it upon herself to give me what she called a 'modern woman's professional reset.' I ended up with three new blazers, five pairs of tailored pants, and a pair of heels I haven't figured out how to walk in without risking a lawsuit."
Grayson laughed. "Let me guess. Cashmere sweaters and structured blazers?"
"She color-coded my closet. I have labels now."
He tilted his head. "Low-key terrifying."
"Low-key?" She raised a brow. "Grayson, she made me get fitted for new jeans. With a tailor. Who measured me!"
He chuckled, then leaned back, arm over the back of the couch.
"I'm sorry," he said, smirking.
Grayson chuckled. "I feel like I should've warned you."
"You should've. But instead, you left me to fend for myself in a Saks dressing room with Mother as my fashion consultant."
"I truly apologize," he said with a hand over his heart.
They sat in comfortable silence for a beat, the soft hum of the house wrapping around them. Outside, dusk was casting long shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Grayson sipped his wine again, the warmth of the alcohol relaxing the tightness in his shoulders. The day had been long, too long. But this? Sitting here, the wine, the banter, the sibling companionship? This was the reward.
And in the back of his mind, like a whisper against the edge of a dream, Olivia lingered.
Denise appeared like a quiet storm, stepping into the living room carrying a large wooden tray filled with neatly arranged meats, cheeses, crackers, and bunches of glistening grapes. She carefully placed the tray on the coffee table between them, giving a soft chuckle as Marybelle immediately abandoned her wine to dive in.
Without hesitation, Marybelle crafted a ridiculous cracker sandwich two slices of salami, a hunk of brie, and a grape smashed dead center and poured herself another generous glass of wine.
"Okay, bro," she said, plopping back against the cushions. "Spill the beans. Tell me what's up. Plus, I lied for you today, so you owe me."
Grayson, lounging deeper into the couch, casually popped grapes into his mouth one by one. "I figured that much when you said I was in a 'heated discussion,'" he said dryly.
Marybelle grinned, all teeth and no apology. "Well, I couldn't exactly march over there and say you were giggling like a schoolgirl, now could I?"
Grayson froze mid-grape. "I do not giggle," he deadpanned, his face a perfect mask of offended dignity.
Marybelle cackled into her wine glass. "Maybe not giggling. But you were definitely... happy. So I improvised." Her smile faded slightly. "Plus, if I hadn't jumped in, Elizabeth was already sniffing around asking questions, looking very concerned."
Grayson rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw the back of his skull. "I just bet she was concerned."
Marybelle pointed at him with a cracker. "Stop stalling. You told me something about jinxes and fate and blah blah blah. Get on with it."
He studied her for a moment. His little sister the realist, the planner, the one who always thought with her head before her heart. She didn't believe in fairytales. She believed in facts.
Except maybe... she hadn't experienced the right kind of magic yet.
Grayson sipped his wine and leaned back into the couch. "I guess I start at the beginning."
So he did.
He told her about Chicago—the first time he saw Olivia without knowing he saw her, that dim pub where their paths had barely crossed. The second encounter in London again passed like ships in the night—the Dallas airport. Then, the meeting wasn't supposed to happen in New York. The way fate had seemingly threaded their lives together, weaving tighter with each accidental meeting.
He explained how he'd flown to Chicago just for her, how she had slipped away while he slept, leaving only a ghost behind, then how she'd shown back up in New York again—like she was drawn there too. How every interaction had pulled them closer, whether he wanted to believe it or not.
And now, she had disappeared once again...because he hadn't thought to ask the most straightforward question: Where are you going?
He sipped his wine, the taste suddenly sharp against his tongue. "I didn't ask. And she didn't tell me. So here I am."
Marybelle stared at him, her mouth slightly open, a piece of cheese forgotten between her fingers.
"Let me get this straight," she said slowly. "You two have been running around the world... randomly running into each other?"
He nodded.
"And the crazy part," he said, pointing at her with his wine glass, "is that she saw me twice before we ever spoke. She was in the same cities, at the same time. I didn't even know."
Marybelle set her wine glass down hard. "Damn. Okay. Okay. I'm starting to believe a little in this fate bullshit."
She tucked her legs tighter under herself. "But what are y'all even doing? Are you dating? Fucking? Travel buddies? What is this?"
Grayson chuckled under his breath. "That's the million-dollar question."
He let the words hang there, heavy and real.
"I know I want to be around her all the time. I know I think about her constantly. I know she's... amazing. And I want to be part of her world."
Marybelle tilted her head, studying him with the same sharpness she used in boardrooms. Then she smiled small, knowing.
"You know you're already in love, right?"
Grayson leaned back, letting his head tip against the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. "I know," he said quietly. "But I don't think she's there yet."
"Well, that's only half your problem, Big Bro."
He peeked over at her. "And the other half?"
She sat up straighter, ticking off her fingers one by one. "First, you have a fate girl running around the world with you. Second, you have the girl Daniel wants to set you up with, whom you promised you'd meet. Third, you have Mom, who's dead-set on shoving Elizabeth down your throat. And fourth, you have Elizabeth herself, who looks at you like you're already wearing a wedding band."
Grayson gave her a flat look. "Captain Obvious, that's not helping."
Marybelle grinned. "Maybe not. But at least now you have home-based support."
He shook his head and reached for his wine. "So what do you suggest?"
"Well, since you're so adamant about keeping this under wraps for now, I'll work on Mom. Buy you some time."
He nodded slowly. "Thanks."
"But you're on your own with Elizabeth," she added sweetly. "You're the only one who can shut her down."
Grayson groaned and let his head thunk back against the couch. "I don't wanna."
Marybelle laughed so hard she almost spilled her wine. "Pull up your big boy pants, Mr. Steel. She's gunning for you."
He muttered something unflattering under his breath but nodded anyway.
Inside, though, a real thought curled around his ribs something heavier. When it was time, when Olivia finally met his family and friends, he would have to share her sunlight, let others see the woman who had cracked him wide open.
He wasn't ready for that.
Not yet.
"Make it happen, Captain," Marybelle said, giving him a lazy salute.
They spent the next hour reminiscing about work, old stories, and memories they only half-wanted to remember. Eventually, the wine won. Marybelle stood and stretched, wobbling a little.
"I'm too tipsy to drive," she said, yawning. "I'm claiming the guest room."
"Help yourself."
She climbed the stairs, pausing at the top to call over her shoulder. "We should've done this on a weekend."
Grayson smiled. "Maybe. But then I would've had to share you with everyone else."
She laughed and closed the door behind her.
Grayson wandered to his own room, wine glass still in hand.
His bedroom was stark and masculine: black and white with sharp lines, softened only by the plush white bedding and a splash of bold red accents—throw pillows, a deep crimson throw folded at the foot of the bed. On one wall hung three framed photographs from his favorite artist, Artemisia:
The first is a barren desert under a curtain of falling rain. The second is a misty forest, and peeking from behind a tree is a vivid red fox, the only color in an otherwise black-and-white frame. The third was a still lake under a full moon, the water mirroring the sky so perfectly you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
He walked to the fox picture, touching the frame lightly.
"Where are you, Little Fox?" he murmured.
Crossing the room, he grabbed his phone off the nightstand, heart beating just a little too fast.
No missed calls. No new messages.
Still, he couldn't resist.
Grayson:Are you asleep?
The response came quicker than expected.
Little Fox:If I was, you're disturbing it. LOL.
He smiled.
Grayson:But you're responding. So you can't be asleep.
Little Fox:Mmm. I think you have that wrong. If I hear my phone, I'm going to answer it. Duh.
Grayson:You've ignored some of my texts before.
Little Fox:I didn't ignore them. I simply responded later. Timing is everything, Wolf.
Grayson:So I shouldn't expect timely replies?
Little Fox:You never asked for that. You should always clarify expectations, Businessman.
Grayson:I didn't know we were treating this like a contract negotiation.
Little Fox:We're not. But some rules still apply.
Grayson:I'll keep that in mind next time I see you.
Grayson:Which will be...?
Little Fox:You already know when you'll see me again.
Grayson:Actually, I don't.
Little Fox:Let me get back to you.
Grayson:It doesn't matter what you say. The outcome will be the same.
Little Fox:Yes.
Grayson:Then I can sleep better tonight knowing nothing's changed.
Little Fox:Glad I could be of service.
Grayson:I didn't say it would be good sleep. I just said sleep.
Little Fox:How can I help with that?
Grayson:You can't. Unless you're in my arms.
There was a pause. Then:
Little Fox:Night, Wolf.
Grayson:Goodnight, Little Fox.
He tossed the phone onto the empty side of the bed and lay back against the pillows, arms spread wide.
He closed his eyes. But it didn't matter. His mind was full of her—her voice, her touch, himself nestled between Olivia's thighs. He envisioned his hands gliding over her body, and his fingers exploring, moving inside her as she squirmed. Her juices coated his hand, her warmth enveloping and tightening around him. The mere visualization of this scene left him rock hard, imagining his cock gliding into her smooth, inviting folds.
He groaned, sitting up fast. His jeans were tight and uncomfortable, evidence of exactly what thinking about her did to him.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, stalking toward the shower.
He sighed as the hot water poured over him, pressing his forehead to the cool tile.
"Yup. This week already sucks." And it was only Monday.