Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2) (16 page)

Holy unfair-to-the-rest-of-the-male-population hotness.

Seriously.

I’m struck silent as I observe him without his knowing, fascinated by his every movement.

I can’t
not
watch the muscles of his back tighten and flex as he flips the bacon in the skillet. I can’t
not
admire the “V” cut of his waistline when he turns to the side, removing a cookie sheet full of toast from the oven. I can’t
not
notice how silky soft the strands of his hair appear to be, falling in messy waves as he bends, finally released and grazing his chin. Completely hypnotized, my eyes fall, and I can’t
not
remain under his spell as I ogle the definition of the muscles lining the tops of his forearms, swelling to capacity when he places the toast on the counter.

And I sure as hell cannot seemingly break my stare, or close my mouth even, when he turns to face me with—I kid you not—a fucking
eight
-pack on full display.

My entire body heats and begins to thrum wildly with the need to feel his perfection, the weight of all of those glorious, well-defined muscles, hovering over me.

Our eyes lock as my mouth clamps shut.

I swallow.

He grins.

I die.

Then I come to my senses.

My hands fly up to shield his body from my eyes, and my face pinches in mock disgust. “Ack. Cover up, would ya? You’re hideous. I’m not even sure I can eat now.”

Grady waggles his eyebrows, and I’m pretty sure he flexes his pecs,
not
that I’m looking.

His smile widens, then he winks.

I die all over again.

He does an about-face, taking a couple of plates from the cabinet, and my eyes drift to the dented skin just above the magnificent ass sadly hidden behind his grey sweats.

I’m onto his little game. Sexy man, mussed hair, cooking, ripped and bare-chested . . . all of which are hot as fuck.

He’s baiting me.

Before I begin to drool all over myself like a loon, I decide to up the ante. A little, tit-for-tat, so to speak.

I grin at the brilliance of my little joke, and clear my suddenly parched throat.

“Sooooo,” I drawl, “shirtless breakfast. Another memo I did not receive.”

Grady pivots around just in time to see my fingers curl under the hem of my shirt. My brows lift in challenge. He remains collected, shrugging his shoulders in nonchalance. Then he whips the spatula in his hand around in the air, and the slightest of grins hits his lips as he offers, “Feel free to make yourself more comfortable.”

The flare of Grady’s eyes is the last thing I see before I whip the T-shirt over my head. The cool air around me rushes over my naked skin upon its removal. I glance down, mentally applauding my choice in undergarment. The strapless black peek-a-boo lace was a perfect pick, seeing as how it demonstrates just how chilly the air really is.

Calmly, I fold the shirt and lay it on the counter before lifting my stare to meet Grady’s. His blue eyes no longer wide but filled with amusement as he chuckles to himself. “I cannot believe you just did that.”

I lift my shoulders innocently and walk to where he stands, reaching for a plate. “I was hot.” I fan myself for emphasis. “Uncomfortable.”

“Sweetheart,” Grady moves to stand behind me, gliding his fingers under my hair and sweeping it over my left shoulder. Heat from his bare chest seeps into the skin of my back and his voice is low as it hits my ear. “Your tits are telling me a different story.”

I suck in a sharp breath when his parted lips touch the sensitive area behind my ear, and right on cue, my nipples harden as a rash of goosebumps rise along every inch of my skin. His laughter strikes my neck, and my eyes roll into the back of my head as I refute, “I said I
was
hot. Clearly that is no longer the case.”

“Clearly.” Another lingering touch from his lips, then his warmth is gone.

I turn to face him, smile on my face, plate in hand. Grady scoops some scrambled eggs onto it, then adds a couple slices of bacon and a piece of toast, before gesturing to the island. I take my seat, and as I sip on the orange juice provided, Grady plates his own food then sits next to me.

Both grinning mischievously, we finally begin to eat. After a couple of bites, Grady places his fork on his plate and turns to look at me. “We discussed my family at length last night. What about yours? Siblings?”

Suddenly getting
better acquainted
doesn’t seem like such a good idea.

I shake my head, swallowing a mouthful of bacon. Grady continues. “Parents?”

Inhaling deeply, I press my feet on the bottom rung of the barstool and rise. I need to reroute this conversation.

“Two.”

I offer nothing else, just lean over slowly to grab a jar of grape jelly from the center of the island. As I do, I make sure to press my breasts together, making my cleavage pop shamelessly. I glance over, disappointed to find Grady’s eyes haven’t left my face. My mouth twists to the side in a defeated pout as I recline back into my seat.

“Close?”

I dip my knife into the jar, scooping a heap as I respond, “We were when I was young. Not so much anymore.”

Grady scratches the stubble on his chin in thought, then asks, “What happened?”

The mound of jelly plops onto my toast and I slather it with the knife. Tearing my determined stare away from my hands, I look Grady right in the eyes and offer in a clipped tone, “They stopped paying attention.”

Grady’s brows draw together and his head jerks backward. And on that note, I decide to end the conversation. Drastic times call for drastic measures.

Folding the toast in half, I squeeze it as I bring it to my mouth, forcing some jelly to fall from the bread and land smack-dab on the swell of my breast.

“Oh, look at that. I can be such a klutz sometimes.” I
tsk
and shake my head, then lower the toast to my plate. Keeping my gaze downward, I bring my hand to cup the underside of my breast and press it upward. As it lifts toward my mouth, I slowly extend my tongue and lazily draw it along the surface of my skin, clearing most of the jelly with a long, leisurely lick. Once through, I bring my eyes to Grady’s and smile innocently while batting my eyelashes.

His stare is not fixated on my breast, nor following my tongue as it disappears back into my mouth. His eyes are merely filled with humor as he grins, shaking his head and relaxing back into his seat. “Not ready to discuss the parents. Got it.”

My face falls and I gape back at him, uncertain if I’m more surprised that he showed absolutely no reaction to my ploy, or the fact that he so easily dismissed the conversation. His shoulders shake with more laughter, warm gaze still focused on my face.

I find myself a bit depressed at his blatant lack of interest. It must be displayed in my disheartened expression, because Grady rises from his relaxed position, leans into me, presses the pad of his thumb into the supple skin, and drags it along the path just taken by my tongue. The trail that had been cooled by the air scorches as his thumb grazes along the top of my breast. The burning fades when he lifts it to his mouth, seals the pad between his lips, and sucks the remainder of grape jelly off the digit.

It’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

My mouth dries and I can do nothing but stare as he leans closer and whispers, “Missed some.”

Grady’s lips are soft and sweet as he presses them against the corner of my mouth before rising and taking both plates with him to the sink.

And I watch, riveted.

Never before have I ever been treated with such . . .
care
.

It’s an odd, yet captivating feeling.

I inhale deeply, just as Grady pivots to face me. His palms press against the counter as he rests his body against it. “Come here.”

I remain by the stool, and Grady grins crookedly. “Please.”

Slowly, I leave the safety of the island, grabbing the Waldo T-shirt as I pass by on my way to Grady. Curling my fingers around the cotton material, I walk to where he stands. He extends his hand, requesting the shirt, and I willingly hand it over because, well, it doesn’t belong to me.

I watch as he unfolds it, turning it upside down and opening its bottom.

“Arms up.”

I do as requested, and the shirt is carefully tugged down my arms and over my head. Grady pulls it taut over my stomach, then brings his eyes to mine. They’re filled with warmth, and for some reason, the gesture of him dressing me, caring for me, prompts me to speak. “I just . . . my past . . . I can’t . . .”

He lifts his hand to my face, stroking my cheek lightly with his knuckles as he dismisses my lack of explanation. “I don’t need you to tell me anything you’re not ready to discuss, Cass. Everyone has a past. I have mine, you have yours. When and
if
you’re ever ready to discuss it, I’ll be here to listen. No judgment. No assumption. But most importantly, no pressure.”

I nod, then whisper, “Thank you, Grady.”

His mouth kicks up at the side. “Thank
you
.”

Grady’s hand falls from my face, and I turn to leave, only to halt my steps when he calls, “Oh, and, Cass?”

I twist to face him, brows raised in question. “Yeah?”

He dips his head and speaks in a low register, watching me intensely from beneath his lashes. “Lucky for you, I swore an oath to remain a gentleman on
this
date. Considering I’ve been
rock-fucking-hard
for the past thirty minutes, I feel the need to warn you ahead of time that
next
one, all bets are off.”

Well . . . fuck.

He lifts his eyebrows.

I blush.

Then I die for the third time today.

But death by Grady Bennett?

I sigh to myself then speak nothing but the truth when I answer, “I look forward to it.”

OPENING THE DOOR TO
my apartment, the alarm sounds and I nearly jump out of my skin, surprised it’s been activated. Spencer and I hardly ever use the thing.

“Shh,” I scold, my fingers flying as fast as they can across the keypad. Once it’s been quieted, I bring my hand to my chest and breathe in deeply, trying to calm my racing heart. As it slows, I turn and gently press the door shut with my fingertips then pivot back around. With a plastic bag containing my dress and heels clutched between my fingers, my yellow sock is set upon the hardwood with a hesitant first step. Then another. And another.

As I tiptoe, it feels strangely reminiscent of performing the familiar walk of shame, but at the same time, it couldn’t be more opposite. I don’t feel weighed down by the usual grime of disgust and remorse. I merely feel as though I’m a normal sixteen-year-old, sneaking into her house, praying she doesn’t get caught.

Tunnel vision in full effect, I focus on the hallway leading to my bedroom, steadily increasing my strides toward its safety. My stare is so intense, I completely miss the burly, bearded man leaning casually against the windowsill in my living room.

“You should lock the door.” His voice is low with caution as he pulls the chain on the lamp next to him.

“Jesus Christ!” My palm hits my sternum in attempt to keep my heart from launching out of my chest as I whip around. My widened gaze lands on the altered appearance of Dalton Greer, calmly crossing his arms, still dressed in the same dark grey shirt and charcoal pants as last night. His hair is still dark, now loose and messy from sleep as it hits his shoulder, but his deep brown eyes no longer remain. Familiar and penetrating clear-blue irises observe my reaction from across the room.

I narrow my stare.

“Are you two
trying
to give me a fucking heart attack?” I whisper-yell, clenching my teeth together.

White teeth flash from behind the brown beard concealing his face just as quickly as they disappear. He presses off the windowsill, makes his way to the door, then glances at me over his shoulder, taking his sweet-ass time to demonstrate how to lock the door.

I roll my eyes and curl my fingers around my cocked hip.

Dalton steps out of the entryway, his presence so potent, it seems to take up the entire living room upon his reentry. The low grumble of his voice is gone, replaced with the tone I remember as he speaks. “I’m not sure what Grady told you.”