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He and I, we’ve had this killer competitive streak since the day we were born. And apparently, that was summoned from the pits of Hell along with Grayson.
His commanding tone irritates me so much that I do exactly as he says. I set my lips in a thin line. “Oh, jeez. Yes, Grayson Daly. It can only be you.” I avoid his gaze as I set to work reorganizing my desk. Anything to avoid looking at his impossibly handsome frame, his dark hair clipped short on the sides but longer on top, allowing one delectable finger wave to emerge. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you.” I can’t help myself. The words fly out. “You got old.”
My mom warned me she’d blossomed, but she’d failed to mention that she’d turned into a rose bush. Gorgeous, sweetly scented, bursting with beauty, and prickly as fuck. I’m probably bleeding somewhere right now.
She even tried to join the men’s tennis team, just to show me she could beat me in the matches.
My love for Grayson is the biological equivalent of a cockroach. It really doesn’t matter what you do to it—it’s going to survive. It’s so non-romantic I should get it cross-stitched and gift it to him for our birthday.
