NESSA

Grayson promised me he was proof that not all football players suck, that he was nothing like the other shitheads I'd come to know and despise. But there was only so much trust I could put in his word when I didn't have anything to base it on. And so, my plan had been to stay away from him. Even though his touch gave me undeniable, irritating butterflies.

But then he'd barrelled into my room, and now my bed smelled like man. Man.

Not the sweaty stench of man that I'd been worried about, though.

No, my bed smelled like Grayson. It was a rich scent that I couldn't quite put a name on. A bit woodsy, a bit spicy.

I rubbed my face into my pillow, not even annoyed that whatever soap he'd used in his hair was the only thing I'd probably be able to smell for the next week. It smelled like man, but in the very best way possible. And the result of it was a complete reluctance to get out of bed. My nine am lecture would have to wait while my brain ran circles around the memories from last night, lost in a scent-induced Grayson spell.

He'd been acting differently. Odd. Sure, he'd whipped out a few cocky lines, and he was an ass to barge into my room like that. But then he'd also been quiet and subdued. For crying out loud, the man fell asleep. Even before that, though, he'd just looked so drained. Sounded drained, too.

I almost didn't want to wake him up. But it had been too hard to resist walking over to him. His handsome face was so vulnerable, and it piqued my curiosity.

Vulnerability came awfully close to being the opposite of manipulation. A little bit of imperfection shone through, and I wasn't even happy to finally find it. Because it opened a whole other door that I wasn't ready for.

God, he'd looked so tired and even a little bit sweet, meaning I couldn't bring myself to argue with him about the lunch date. There'd already been a touch of sadness to his expression, and his gaze made me forget all about my determination to stay away.

I still couldn't completely trust him, but this morning, as I pushed my face deeper into my pillow, I found myself wanting so badly to be able to. I wished I could trust that he was who he said he was without risking a part of myself in the process.

It was a selfless thing, to trust. It meant letting go of that little piece of you that has been hurt in the past, to come to terms with the fact that you might get hurt again. After all, it hadn't even been a year since Jasper. And Pinterest quotes and Instagram influencers would tell me I should focus on living for myself. Find the good in my life without spending another year making the same mistakes.

But they probably didn't have a 6'3" sweet-smelling, smooth-talking, guitar-playing, wide receiver lying in their bed last night, did they?

And that was precisely why I sprung out of bed, dressed, and called my mom on my way to my lecture, letting her know that I didn't need a ride home for winter break.

And it was also why I found myself sliding into Grayson's immaculate Volkswagen the next week, piling my stuff into his backseat. That rich, woodsy smell consumed me, bringing an uninvited warmth to my chest.

Unsurprisingly, his smile was larger than life when I looked up at him. Gray wore black jeans today, paired with a clean-cut grey sweater. So simple, but so smart-looking. He made me feel like a slob in my ripped jeans and corduroy jacket, which I'd layered haphazardly over a fraying t-shirt.

"Did you have a place in mind for lunch?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No, actually. I'm not picky. Anywhere sounds good. Give me some meat and cheese between two buns, and I'm good."

Grayson's lips twitched. "Alright, then."

Without another word, he pulled out of the parking lot, speeding toward the highway. But then as we merged onto it, I realized we were going the wrong way. I've never been super great at cardinal directions, and my internal compass was whacked, but for Christ's sake, I could read. And we were definitely on a highway going north.

"This is not the right direction."

His lips twitched again.

"I know."

"Where are we going?"

"Burgers on you, remember?"

"But—"

"You said you weren't picky, so I'm taking you to one of my favorite spots. It's about twenty minutes from here."

"In the wrong direction," I deadpanned.

Grayson stepped on the gas, and I lurched forward a bit. "In the wrong direction," he confirmed.

"You really ran with the whole not picky thing, didn't you?"

He nodded, smiling like he was proud of himself. "It's my Hail Mary before the end of the semester. One more chance to get to spend more time with you."

Damn him.

It was that kinda shit. When he grinned and made comments so unapologetically forward and direct. That was what tugged me along, what made me think that maybe he really meant what he was saying. That maybe he wasn't playing games.

Maybe the only reason Grayson seemed like a mystery to me because I was making him into one.

So I fought a grin and relaxed into his seat. He threw on some quiet music, and I thought I recognized the Beatles-esque opening of All These Things That I've Done, so I turned it up. And sure enough, that was what it was.

And I relaxed a little bit more.

We ended up at a place situated right on the San Francisco Bay, and it had an upscale-diner feel. Trendy but with enough personalized touches to make it feel authentic and chill.

I ordered for us at the front counter, and Grayson grabbed the table number so they could bring the food out to our spot. He twirled it in his fingers like it was a baton while plucking a wallet out of his pocket with his other hand.

No fucking way.

I nearly jabbed the cashier with my credit card as I cut off Grayson's efforts to pay for the cheeseburgers and fries. He trained a scowl on me, but his irritation didn't last long; soon we were sitting beneath an umbrella with the sound of water behind us, and his grin reappeared.

"Thanks for lunch," he said before plopping a french fry into his mouth.

I couldn't help but return his smile. There was genuine happiness on his face. That couldn't be faked, right?

"Thanks for giving me a ride back home."

"You know it's my pleasure."

My cheeks heated, and I instantly looked away from him, too unnerved by his direct stare and those words. I glanced at my food instead, suddenly self-conscious that I would actually have to eat this monstrosity of a cheeseburger in front of Grayson. I was well aware that the choice of cuisine was my idea. And I really wanted to be that girl who wasn't bothered by people watching them eat, and I usually was, but it was a little different with these steel blue eyes trained my way.

Luckily, Grayson picked that moment to watch a boat drift by the restaurant, allowing me to take a massive bite of the sandwich. Really overestimated myself on it, too. Ketchup and whatever secret sauce the cashier had sworn by squirted out, lining my lips.

Grayson chuckled from across the table, and I quickly swallowed my food.

"You got something right here," he said, gesturing to the side of his mouth.

"I'm aware," I said, rolling my eyes. And then widening them because Grayson dared to reach across the table, raising his hand to my face. Like hell was I going to let him clean condiments off my cheek, and I made quick work of darting my tongue out, licking the remnants of sauce.

But I wasn't quick enough because the tip of my tongue graced the edge of Grayson's thumb. And then his gaze lifted to mine, and it flirted with my heartbeat. There was amusement in his eyes, mingling with something else I didn't want to think about.

"Shit, Adler," he swore. "Only you could make eating a burger so fucking hot."

Not for the first time today, I felt a flush come over me. But then I got a hold of myself and cleared my throat, lifting a napkin to primly clean off my mouth.

"That's definitely not true," I said objectively. "The food industry is literally thriving on sex appeal alone. Models make a shit ton of money from eating burgers so that men like you will buy them."

"Men like me, huh?"

"Men like you."

Grayson chuckled, shaking his head.

"I beg to differ. I don't think sex appeal makes me want to go out to eat any more than I normally would. Well..." He cleared his throat, and based on his expression, I just knew the next words out of his mouth were going to make me want to kick him. "I mean, watching you does make me hungry." He stopped again. That signature smirk of his flashed onto his face. "But not for food."

Flushed didn't even begin to cover it anymore.

I gave his ankle a little kick beneath the table. "You are incorrigible. Downright insufferable."

The smirk didn't vanish as he settled back into his chair, munching on another fry. "Incorrigible, huh? Are we in a Pride and Prejudice remake now?"

With an embarrassing giggle, I took a sip of my Coke. "Sorry, I binge-watched Bridgerton last week while procrastinating studying for my psychology final."

"Oh, well in that case, I definitely think I'm a better fit for the role of Simon Basset than Mr. Darcy."

My eyebrows shot up at the mention of Bridgerton's male lead. The role of Mr. Darcy was universally acknowledged—just like how a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want for a wife. But Simon Basset, on the other hand...

"Watching 19th-century romances in your spare time, Grayson?" I asked, fighting a smile.

"My moms were watching it when I was home for Thanksgiving break," he explained with a laugh. "I might have joined them for a few episodes, but only because they lured me in with beer and popcorn."

"I hope it was the beginning of the season and not the end," I murmured into my bun before taking another big bite of burger.

Grayson shook his head with a wry twist of his lips. "It was somewhere in the middle, I think. Made me think of you, actually."

Considering that episodes five through seven of Bridgerton were the filmed sexscapades of the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, I nearly choked on my burger before managing to swallow it and stare wide-eyed at Grayson.

He was barely containing himself.

"I swear your mind is actually dirtier than mine," he said with a grin, running his hand through his hair. Unbothered, as usual.

I coughed as laughter bubbled up inside me. "Now that, I beg to differ."

There was a knowing glow in his eyes, and he didn't argue the point further.

"I wasn't thinking about you because of the sex, Nessa," he said. "I was thinking about you because I made a damn good stand-in boyfriend at the party that night, not so unlike our incorrigible duke before he begrudgingly married the duchess."

"You were alright," I muttered, still trying to recover. And trying really hard not to think about the things Grayson and I did in the ten minutes he pretended to be my boyfriend that night.

Grayson leaned forward. "I was better than alright, and you know it," he insisted before tilting his head to the sight in thought. "You know, that's the difference between myself and the duke. Well, one of them."

I raised a brow, unwilling to admit aloud that I wanted to know where he was going with this.

"We might have put on a fake little show, Nessa, but I'm not the least bit afraid to say that I wish it was real."

His lips curved up, and I was so annoyed to realize that he really was devilishly handsome. And adorable. And maybe even sweet as goddamn sugar.

Shit.

💗
leave it to me to add a little historical fiction to the mix oops
simon basset, ily but bren and I are still a little salty ngl (just kidding).
also I think Nessa should have handed Grayson a spoon.
Okay I'm done now 😆

hope you enjoyed!!
xoxo

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@cocoandamelie