The Friend Zone
Page 11
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Only now I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. Would we have been more than friends if I hadn’t drawn that line in the sand? But what-ifs don’t matter; we’re friends now, and there is no way I’d risk ruining that by dreaming of more. Besides, in a few months I’ll be back in London with a whole ocean between us.
Smiling back at Gray, I discreetly put a hand to my aching chest and try to press that sense of loss away.
Three
Ivy
When Gray pulls into the circular drive of my dad’s home, he lets out a slow whistle. “That’s some house.”
It’s a monstrosity. One of the new Southern mansions that attempts to look like a chateau but uses sandstone brick and terracotta tiles, and has an obvious newness about it that will never fade into gentility. I know it pisses my dad off that we refuse to live in it, but he’s rarely home and the place literally echoes when you walk inside it. Fi and I are holding out hope that he’ll give up the ghost and find himself a nice townhome more suitable to our small family.
I stare up at the house. “Sometimes when I look at this place, I feel like the biggest asshole.”
Gray’s laugh is startled. “Why?”
“I know how many people would kill to live here. And I don’t want it. I hate the place. And, I don’t know… I feel like an ingrate.”
He tilts his head to get a better view of the house. “I don’t know, Mac. There’s a house, and there’s home. That doesn’t look particularly homey to me.”
Slowly, I shake my head. “But I shouldn’t complain about it. I’ve lived my life completely cosseted. I take the money my parents give me and never need to support myself. What kind of person does that make me?”
“My friend.” He crosses his big arms over his chest, and gives me a hard look. “So don’t go beating up on her. Hell, Mac, you worked your butt off and graduated a year early. It isn’t as if you’re going around partying and blowing through money. You want to know what pisses me off?”
“What?” I ask with a small smile, because he’s cute when he’s irate and his brows are inching toward his hairline.
“All our lives, we’re told work hard, strive for more, do all you can to live that life less ordinary. Money, power, fame, everyone wants it. But you get there and suddenly you’re supposed to be ashamed, be humble?” He shakes his head. “Fuck that noise. I say live your life on your terms. If someone judges you about material things, that’s their problem.”
My smile grows, and I set my hand on his arm where the muscles are thick and bulging beneath his warm skin. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”
“Damn straight,” he mutters, still worked up. “And no more feeling shitty for things given to you by people who love you.”
“Okay.”
He huffs, not looking at me but drumming his fingers on the pink steering wheel. “Where am I taking you, then?”
“Head toward the portico next to the garage. We’re back there.”
Gray drives to the rear of the property and the little guesthouse appears.
“This is home,” I say. “Or as close to it as we have in the area.”
It looks like a gamekeeper’s cottage, with mullioned windows and a peaked roof. The house is raised from the ground, and a set of stairs leads up to the front door.
“Now that looks like a home,” Gray says, sounding pleased.
As soon as we step out of the car, Fi’s opening the front door. Her skin has a greenish tinge but she’s smiling wide. “Well, well, well. Look at what the cat dragged in.”
Petite and lithe, with short pale blonde hair and big green eyes, my sister is like a big-mouthed Tinker Bell. And I’ve missed the hell out of her.
“Hey there, Fi-Fi,” I call up with a grin.
“Ivy Weed.” She shifts from foot to foot, as if she wants to race down the stairs and launch herself at me. Which would be our customary greeting, complete with hugs and kisses. But clearly she’s too ill to do that now. Her gaze leaves me and settles on Gray. I almost laugh at the way her mouth falls open and she stands straighter.
“Fiona, this is Gray Grayson.”
Gray, who has been hauling my luggage out of the trunk, turns and gives her a smile. “Hey. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Fi clears her throat. “Likewise. Although it looks like my sister left out some pertinent parts. I’d come say hello properly but you should probably stay well away from me at the moment.” Fi grimaces as if she’s just realized that she’s standing in the doorway wearing her fuzzy pink robe and slippers that look like SpongeBob’s head. “In fact,” she says faintly, “I’m going to lie down now. I’ll see you in a few, Ivy.”
I get a nice, hard glare before Fi practically runs away.
“She’s mortified,” I tell Gray as we head toward the house. “Fi never wants any guy to see her in anything other than full-on makeup.”
“She’s cute as a button,” Gray says happily.
I’d be worried, but he doesn’t look interested in Fi, which is a relief. I’ve been friends with guys who have panted over Fi. It never ends well.
The house is open concept with a living room in the center and a dining nook and an L-shaped kitchen to one side. Fi’s redecorated since I’d last been here. Now the walls are chocolate brown, the couches big and covered in cream-colored microfiber. A distressed-wood coffee table sits between them, and sepia photographs of cityscapes hang in a grid pattern along one wall.
Smiling back at Gray, I discreetly put a hand to my aching chest and try to press that sense of loss away.
Three
Ivy
When Gray pulls into the circular drive of my dad’s home, he lets out a slow whistle. “That’s some house.”
It’s a monstrosity. One of the new Southern mansions that attempts to look like a chateau but uses sandstone brick and terracotta tiles, and has an obvious newness about it that will never fade into gentility. I know it pisses my dad off that we refuse to live in it, but he’s rarely home and the place literally echoes when you walk inside it. Fi and I are holding out hope that he’ll give up the ghost and find himself a nice townhome more suitable to our small family.
I stare up at the house. “Sometimes when I look at this place, I feel like the biggest asshole.”
Gray’s laugh is startled. “Why?”
“I know how many people would kill to live here. And I don’t want it. I hate the place. And, I don’t know… I feel like an ingrate.”
He tilts his head to get a better view of the house. “I don’t know, Mac. There’s a house, and there’s home. That doesn’t look particularly homey to me.”
Slowly, I shake my head. “But I shouldn’t complain about it. I’ve lived my life completely cosseted. I take the money my parents give me and never need to support myself. What kind of person does that make me?”
“My friend.” He crosses his big arms over his chest, and gives me a hard look. “So don’t go beating up on her. Hell, Mac, you worked your butt off and graduated a year early. It isn’t as if you’re going around partying and blowing through money. You want to know what pisses me off?”
“What?” I ask with a small smile, because he’s cute when he’s irate and his brows are inching toward his hairline.
“All our lives, we’re told work hard, strive for more, do all you can to live that life less ordinary. Money, power, fame, everyone wants it. But you get there and suddenly you’re supposed to be ashamed, be humble?” He shakes his head. “Fuck that noise. I say live your life on your terms. If someone judges you about material things, that’s their problem.”
My smile grows, and I set my hand on his arm where the muscles are thick and bulging beneath his warm skin. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”
“Damn straight,” he mutters, still worked up. “And no more feeling shitty for things given to you by people who love you.”
“Okay.”
He huffs, not looking at me but drumming his fingers on the pink steering wheel. “Where am I taking you, then?”
“Head toward the portico next to the garage. We’re back there.”
Gray drives to the rear of the property and the little guesthouse appears.
“This is home,” I say. “Or as close to it as we have in the area.”
It looks like a gamekeeper’s cottage, with mullioned windows and a peaked roof. The house is raised from the ground, and a set of stairs leads up to the front door.
“Now that looks like a home,” Gray says, sounding pleased.
As soon as we step out of the car, Fi’s opening the front door. Her skin has a greenish tinge but she’s smiling wide. “Well, well, well. Look at what the cat dragged in.”
Petite and lithe, with short pale blonde hair and big green eyes, my sister is like a big-mouthed Tinker Bell. And I’ve missed the hell out of her.
“Hey there, Fi-Fi,” I call up with a grin.
“Ivy Weed.” She shifts from foot to foot, as if she wants to race down the stairs and launch herself at me. Which would be our customary greeting, complete with hugs and kisses. But clearly she’s too ill to do that now. Her gaze leaves me and settles on Gray. I almost laugh at the way her mouth falls open and she stands straighter.
“Fiona, this is Gray Grayson.”
Gray, who has been hauling my luggage out of the trunk, turns and gives her a smile. “Hey. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Fi clears her throat. “Likewise. Although it looks like my sister left out some pertinent parts. I’d come say hello properly but you should probably stay well away from me at the moment.” Fi grimaces as if she’s just realized that she’s standing in the doorway wearing her fuzzy pink robe and slippers that look like SpongeBob’s head. “In fact,” she says faintly, “I’m going to lie down now. I’ll see you in a few, Ivy.”
I get a nice, hard glare before Fi practically runs away.
“She’s mortified,” I tell Gray as we head toward the house. “Fi never wants any guy to see her in anything other than full-on makeup.”
“She’s cute as a button,” Gray says happily.
I’d be worried, but he doesn’t look interested in Fi, which is a relief. I’ve been friends with guys who have panted over Fi. It never ends well.
The house is open concept with a living room in the center and a dining nook and an L-shaped kitchen to one side. Fi’s redecorated since I’d last been here. Now the walls are chocolate brown, the couches big and covered in cream-colored microfiber. A distressed-wood coffee table sits between them, and sepia photographs of cityscapes hang in a grid pattern along one wall.
