Page 38 of Fresh Tracks
Grace pours a second glass and steps out from behind the island.
Dangerous was an understatement.
I saw the cropped, spaghetti strapped cami she was wearing when I walked in. With her tall build, it shows an overlygenerous amount of her mid-drift, highlighting the dip of her waist and the thin, baby blue fabric does nothing to hide her nipple piercings. But now I can see the short flannel sleep shorts she’s in, barely covering her ass and showing all of her long, toned legs.
I look up just in time to see her already watching me. Judging by the little smirk she gives me and hint of pink on her cheeks, I’m pretty sure she just caught me staring. Seems fair after the way she was staring at me in my home gym.
“Come on, this way,” she says, leading me toward the living room carrying both glasses of wine.
“I know where the TV is. My guesthouse, remember?” I raise my pierced eyebrow, but follow behind her.
Saying those shorts barely cover her ass is generous. I’m struggling to think of a view I’ve seen that I enjoy more than this one, which is saying something. I’ve paid millions for properties just because of the view and none of them are better than this.
She looks back catching me staring again, but grins to herself this time. “Seems like you’re a little distracted. Wanted to make sure you don’t get lost.”
God damnit. Is she flirting with me? I know I’m not exactly thinking straight because seeing all of her curves from her full tits, her waist, and down to the curve of her ass has all my blood leaving my brain and going south. Still, there’s no way she’d be flirting with me. She’s just that kind and friendly to everyone. She makes everyone around her feel special and cared for. That’s just how infectious her personality is. This doesn’t have anything to do with me.
“Very funny.” I reach out and take the glass of wine from her, before sitting on the far end of the sectional couch. I stretch out along the chaise, kicking my shoes off and propping my feet up.
To my surprise, she sits down next to me. “Scooch over.”
Before I can even move, she’s pressed herself right against myside, stretching out next to me. My brain short circuits and my body goes rigid at the sudden, overwhelming amount of contact with her.
Her long, smooth bare legs touch mine. She rests her hand on her leg, but her fingertips graze my thigh. I know it’s unintentional, but my swelling cock doesn’t know that. The only thing going through my mind now is a desperate hope she doesn’t look at my lap because my thin lounge shorts are doing nothing to hide what she’s doing to me.
She must sense my reaction because she laughs, clinking her glass against mine. “Relax. I know it’s your house, but you’re not hogging the chaise all to yourself. I’ve been dying to get out of my van and stretch out for a change.”
I let out a long, shaky breath. OK. I know Grace clearly gives no shits about personal space and boundaries. I get it, I’m not great about it either. I’m a touchy, feely person — always shaking hands and bringing people in for hugs.
I can do this though. This is just sitting together on the couch, late at night, with a friend. A friend that you’re obsessed with. A friend who is barely wearing any clothes. Yeah, I can do this.
“So what are we watching?” I look up just in time to catch her eyes widening.
“Oh shit,” she says, her cheeks reddening as she reaches for the remote.
That’s when I see it. Right on the screen is a video from an old Teal Tigers concert, paused mid-frame on a close up of me.
I can’t contain the grin spreading across my face. Oh, this is good.
“Nope.” I lean forward, grabbing her wrist right before she can click the remote. “You’re going to tell me why you’re watchingthisin the middle of the night.”
Her shoulders sag and she groans in exasperation. “Fine. I was doing research.”
I quirk an eyebrow at her. “Researching what? How I used to be way cooler and had fewer gray hairs?”
I can see her relax at my joke. That’s when our eyes go to my hand, still holding her wrist, my thumb rubbing the back of her hand. I loosen my grip, but she doesn’t immediately pull her hand away.
She takes a sip of her wine. “It’s going to sound silly.”
She sinks back into the couch and I note the subtle shade of red that’s still spread across her cheeks. I can’t look away. Those freckled cheeks, the way her bangs and hair frame her square face, and those stunning emerald green eyes that always seem to sparkle.
“Try me,” I say, slumping back into the couch matching her posture and taking a swig of my own wine.
Her eyes stay focused on my frozen image on screen, her lips curling into a warm smile. “I like to know what makes people tick. Especially when I’m working with them. Figuring out the kids I’d volunteer with, or learning what a donor is passionate about. You though? You’re different.”
“You mean because I’m a famous, washed-up rockstar?”
Her eyes flick back to me with a playful glare and she shoves me in my shoulder, melting my heart. “No, silly. You’re just harder to read.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “It sounds so dumb, but I thought watching some of these old videos would help me figure you out a bit more.”
