Page 75 of Just for the Cameras
“Sore,” I say.
“If you had any sort of ice, I’d offer you some to help with the bruising, but since it seems like you have nothing, I’ll have to wait until my order is delivered.”
“Your order?” I ask, my brows shooting up.
“Yes, my order.” Then he hops up on the kitchen counter and starts scrolling through his phone again, blocking me out.
Well, this is fun.
Graydon walks back into my living room, taking care of the trash accumulated after his “delivery.”
I’m going to tell you, it was anything but a delivery. Because while I clumsily attempted to check emails on my phone and update Everly and Phil on my injuries and current state—very awkwardly typing with one hand—he bought an entire department store along with a grocery store.
I opened my mouth to protest, but he growled at me, so I just sat back, iced my face with an ice pack that he found in the back of my freezer I forgot about, and watched him move around my apartment, unloading food into my fridge and cabinets. Then he unboxed a brand-new coffee maker, a few mugs, and coffee pods on my counter. He moved into mybedroom and took out brand-new fluffy white bedding and light pink sheets, along with towels, a bath mat, and whatever else he thought I needed. He came back into the living room, grabbed the side table he purchased, and set it next to the couch before sticking a potted plant on it.
He draped a few Foghorns T-shirts on the couch arm, a Foghorns tumbler, and of course a mug.
When he was done, he answered the door again for a food delivery that he plated and brought over to me.
I watched him work in silence, my mouth agape as I thought about all the ways I could return the things he purchased, the things I didn’t need, but the things that made this apartment look so much more…homey.
From the light pink area rug to the throw pillows to the freaking candle on the coffee table.
I don’t even know what to say.
What to do.
I don’t know how to respond because with the snap of his fingers, he just turned my entire living situation upside down.And what mammoth football-playing mortal buys pink throw pillows for a virtual stranger’s bedroom? What’s with that?Let alone a potted plant. What is going on?
After he gives me what was inside the food delivery—a bowl of soup and a plate of grilled cheese—he goes back to the kitchen to grab his plate, then makes one final trip for drinks and the bottle of ibuprofen. He wordlessly hands me a napkin and dives into his food, not even bothering to look at me. I can’t just stay silent anymore.
“Um, what’s going on here?”
He doesn’t answer but instead shoves his sandwich into his mouth.
“Graydon, I’m talking to you.”
He chews, swallows, and then sips from his bottle of Gatorade.
“Hello.” I poke him with my finger.
He glances down at where I poked him in the shoulder and then turns his gaze back to his food.
“Graydon!” I yell, not holding back anymore. “Stop.” I move his plate away and force him to look at me. “What the hell is happening? Why did you get me all of this stuff? Why did you march around my place like Joanna Gaines, decorating my apartment? Why are you sitting here, eating lunch with me in silence?”
He drags his napkin over his face and then, without looking at me, says, “I have a sense of responsibility to protect you now that we’re in this agreement. I might not fucking like it, but it’s part of the agreement.”
“What agreement? Because I don’t recall signing anything that says you need to take care of me.”
“It’s unspoken.”
“Uh-huh, and what else is unspoken? Because I’d really like to know what I need to do to hold up my end of the bargain.”
His eyes flash toward me, the darkness creeping into his pupils. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Uh, I don’t know.
I don’t even know what I said to have made him turn on me like that.
