Page 82 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Wait!” Amber’s voice cuts through my hormone-induced trance. “I have a better idea.” She’s already standing, hands working beneath her own dress. “Leggings. I always wear them under dresses because I’m paranoid about wardrobe malfunctions.”
She shimmy-steps out of her black leggings. “Here—you can wear Grayson’s shirt as a tunic, and these will make everything appropriate.”
The solution is so practical and thoughtful that I want to hug her, except I’m currently standing between a shirtless man who looks like he wants to devour me and a restaurant full of tourists who are pretending not to stare.
“Bathroom,” Brett says, standing with the kind of protective authority that mirrors Grayson’s energy. “Amber will help you change, and we’ll handle damage control out here.”
“I’ll be right outside the door,” Grayson adds, and there’s something almost predatory in the way he says it. Like he’s posting guard against any threat to something precious.
The women’s restroom at the Back Porch turns out to be mercifully empty, allowing me to strip out of my ruined dress with whatever dignity I have remaining. Amber helps me into her leggings—which fit surprisingly well—before I pull Grayson’s t-shirt over my head.
The fabric is still warm from his body, saturated with his scent in a way that makes my pulse race with entirely inappropriate thoughts. The shirt falls to mid-thigh, transforming into an oversized tunic that somehow manages to be both modest and utterly feminine.
“You look amazing,” Amber says, grinning as she adjusts the neckline. “Like you’re wearing your boyfriend’s shirt, but make it fashion.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Amber?—”
“What? It’s a good look on you.” She steps back, examining her handiwork with obvious satisfaction. “Plus, Grayson is going to lose his mind seeing you in his clothes. Men are weirdly territorial about that stuff.”
She’s not wrong. When we emerge from the bathroom, Grayson’s reaction is immediate and devastating. His eyes lock on me wearing his shirt, and something primitive and hungry flashes across his face before he masters it.
“Better?” he asks, but his voice carries undertones that suggest he finds this particular solution both better and infinitely more problematic.
“Much better,” I manage, though wearing his shirt feels like being wrapped in his claim, surrounded by his scent and warmth in a way that makes thinking difficult.
“Good,” he says simply, but the way his gaze travels from my face to where his shirt skims my thighs suggests his thoughts are anything but simple.
Brett clears his throat. “Crisis averted. Should we order dessert, or are we calling it a successful evening?”
“Dessert,” Amber says firmly. “We’re celebrating successful problem-solving and the fact that Michelle looks absolutely stunning in borrowed clothes.”
As we settle back at our table, I’m hyperaware of every place Grayson’s shirt touches my skin, of the way his scent surrounds me like a second skin. When he reaches for my hand under the table, his thumb traces patterns on my palm that feel like promises.
“Thank you,” I whisper, meaning it for so much more than just the shirt.
His smile in response is soft and dangerous and full of unspoken intentions. “Anything for you,” he says quietly. “Though I have to admit, seeing you in my shirt is making it very difficult to remember we’re in public.”
The heat in his voice makes my breath catch. “Grayson?—”
“I know.” His thumb continues its maddening circles on my wrist, finding my pulse point with devastating precision. “But for the record, when we get home tonight, I’m going to have a very hard time not thinking about you wearing my clothes.”
The promise in his words sends fire racing through my veins, and suddenly the thought of the ferry ride back to Cedar Island—forty minutes trapped in close quarters with a man who’s looking at me like I’m something he wants to unwrap slowly—feels both like the best and most dangerous idea in the world.
“Thank you,” I whisper, meaning it for so much more than just the shirt.
“Anything for you,” he says simply, and the sincerity in his voice makes my throat tight with emotion.
“Okay, that was officially the most romantic rescue I’ve ever witnessed,” Amber declares, fanning herself with the dinner menu. “If Brett had done that on our first date, I would have proposed to him.”
“I’m taking notes,” Brett says dryly, though his eyes are warm with approval as he watches Grayson settle back into his chair while keeping one protective hand on my arm.
The server returns with enough napkins to clean a small restaurant and profuse apologies, but I barely notice because Grayson leans close enough that his breath tickles my ear.
“For the record,” he murmurs, voice pitched to that gravelly register that turns my bones to liquid, “you look better in my shirt than I ever did.”
The comment sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the evening breeze. “Keep talking like that and I might never give it back.”
“I was counting on that,” he says, and the heat in his voice makes me brave.
