Page 140 of Breaking Point
“Grayson? What are you doing here?”
His smile spreads, and it’s such a joyful one I can feel the corner of my lips wanting to tug up. His joy is always contagious.
I’m surprised he’s here, not only because he forced me to take the day off, but he was just here yesterday after insisting on driving me home from the hospital. “Did you leave something here?” I ask.
He shakes his head, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet as a flush makes its way up his neck.How is this man sexy all the while being devilishly cute?
“I’ve actually got something for you.”
“For me?” I ask dubiously.
“Yes, Blaze. You.”
That damn name.
“It’s Bella,” I remind him for what feels like the thousandth time.
“Do you want to see what I have for you or not?” he teases.
“Why?” I can’t help but ask.
He rolls his eyes in exasperation, but there’s an edge of hilarity to it. “Humor me.”
Opening the door farther as the universal signal to step inside, I’m shocked when he doesn’t but instead moves to the side and comes back with a stack of boxes. With his arms ladened down, he steps past my gaping form to set them in the living room.
“W-what is all of that?” I stutter.
He grins. “Your present.”
“It’s not my birthday. Or Christmas.”
“Doesn’t have to be.”
“Awe, Bella, that’s so kind of Grayson,” my mom coos from the sofa.
I point an accusatory finger at her. “You’re in on this, you little traitor.”
“I’m Switzerland,” she declares.
Grayson steps back inside with a smaller box under his arm and an envelope. Closing the front door, he shakes off his coat and passes me the envelope as he makes his way to my mom with the smaller box in hand.
Curiosity gets the better of me. Opening it, I find a handwritten note with Grayson’s distinctive messy handwriting.
Let’s see if you’re the only one who can make me landscape again.
The deal we made comes rushing to the forefront of my mind, and in turn, my head snaps up to the large boxes he moved into my living room. Ignoring the hushed voices being passed back and forth between my mom and Grayson, I grab the closest box to me, a smaller one stacked atop a large one, though I’m suddenly terrified to open it. What if my assumption is right?
Taking a deep breath, I quickly open the lid, only for that deep breath to leave me in a rush. Nestled within, packaged so delicately I could cry, are paint brushes, sharpeners, pencils, and notebooks. And not just any art equipment, it’s all top of the line.
I’d let out a gasp—anything to indicate the whirlwind of shock thundering through my system in this moment—but I don’t think I’m capable of making sounds right now.
I feel like a robot, my body moving on autopilot to the next box as it tries to prove me wrong.
He wouldn’t drop thousands of dollars on me.
Why would he?
This arrangement is fake and, deal or not, it’s not like I’m going to turn around and drop thousands of gardening equipment on him. First of all, I can’t afford to, and secondly, something tells me he’d continue to return it until I grew tired.
