Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
“How can you be so sure things can change in as little as one conversation?”
Grayson’s eyes beheld Carl, dark, intense, happy, frustrated. “I know.”
Carl doubled his grip on Grayson’s poor hand. He opened his mouth to speak and was cut off by the shrill ring of Grayson’s phone.
Grayson disentangled their hands and answered. “Mr Wilson. Yes, I’m coming this evening. I’ll grab a bite to eat and be right there.” He finished the call and looked regretfully at Carl.
Carl nodded and stood. He meant to say that’s okay, no problem, chat later. But . . .
He took the bundle off Grayson’s lap, set it on his wicker chair and jerked a thumb towards the gate. “Can I be your PA tonight?”
Jason called while they were ordering dinner. After his twin’s last message, Carl wasn’t sure he wanted to answer, but Grayson gave him the courage.
He glanced around the busy eatery, caught sight of one of the witches in the line behind him, and answered the call. “Jason here.”
“Just wondering,” the true Jason said slowly.
“Wondering?”
“Who exactly is Angus?”
Momentary relief. Just curiosity about Angus.
Carl stiffened. If Jason was asking about the mechanical bull they liked to ride, usually on birthdays or—
This must have to do with Pete’s stag night.
He waited for the hit of hurt. There was a slight heave in his chest, but . . . not as painful as he’d thought. A slow breath trickled out of him. He looked at Grayson, whose back was to Carl as he scanned the menu and glanced back for Carl’s order. The little question, the consideration to order together—it had gravity racing through him again—
Grayson raised a brow.
Carl caught himself, mouthed he’d have the same, finished off his call—
And slapped his cheeks with both hands. What outrageous things are you thinking?
While munching on their food at an outdoor table, Grayson said, “Don’t take me paying for you the wrong way.”
Carl’s fork hovered mid-air, a few inches from his mouth. The wrong way. Was he referring to how the lawyers had paid for lunch and made him feel inferior?
Or was he making sure Carl didn’t think this was in any way romantic?
Carl scoffed down his mouthful of potato gratin and chased it with water. He hedged his answer so it covered both options. “Friends can take turns paying without it getting weird. I’ll get it next time.”
Almost like déjà vu, Carl followed Grayson to his gig working for the former Air Force pilot, and Mr Wilson escorted them through the house and the back garden to the standalone unit.
“Wifi’s down,” Mr Wilson said. “I hope you can manage without?”
“Better that way,” Grayson said. “No distractions.”
Mr Wilson’s gaze drifted to Carl. “Is that right?” He waved at them and left them to their laptop devices—and the dodgy door.
Grayson propped the door open with one of the many file boxes on the bed, and at a rush of southerly wind, exchanged it with just the lid of a box.
The two of them alone in the small unit had Carl strangely clammy. He hurriedly got his laptop up and running.
“You don’t have to actually work,” Grayson said. “You’re welcome to hang next to me.”
Carl wagged a finger. “You wait. I’ll have more done than you by the end of the evening.”
Grayson chuckled, but his chuckle did not last long. Not when he saw Carl’s new method: speaking into the microphone and having all the words magically appear on his screen.
At Grayson’s surprise, Carl said, “Sage showed me this.”
“Clever.”
Carl agreed, and they dove into transcribing for another hour, until they felt the need for a hot drink to combat the draught coming through the cracked-open door.
“Any food?” Grayson asked as he finished typing up a page.
Carl peered into the cupboards. “Lots of tea. A dodgy looking tin of diced tomatoes. And some multi-vitamins.”
“Throw me a couple of multi-vitamins. I don’t want to catch another cold.”
Carl handed over a steaming tea and two tablets, and took a couple himself. “You might also want to tone down how much you work if you don’t want to get sick all the time.”
Grayson sipped his tea, humming noncommittally.
“You don’t have to . . .” Carl stopped. Guilt harnessed Grayson like a horse—made him work, made him sick. And Carl wished he’d stop. Give himself time to heal.
“Don’t have to what?”
“Work so hard.”
Grayson’s nose stayed dipped into his cup for a long time. He set the cup down and drew a finger around the steam-moistened rim. “Perhaps I should tone it down.”
Carl held a hopeful breath and nodded.
“Especially if I have other priorities.”
“Other priorities?”
“Spending time with people I care about. For leisure.”
Carl was still holding his breath. “Like whom?”
Grayson circled his nail around the cup again.
“Sam?”
The cup toppled and Grayson quickly caught it. “Where did that come from?”
“Spending time. Priorities . . . I just . . .” Carl threw up his hands. “I wondered.”