Read Online Play It Safe by Kristen Ashley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kristen Ashley
Ads: Link
wanted to know.
“Really,” I shook my head, “thank you but no. Gray has been very kind, I’ve taken a lot of his time already and I’m really not a breakfast person. Especially not this early. But again, thank you.”
I wondered if I was laying on the gratitude too thick. I could tell by her assessing eyes, her blank face and her aloof manner that she didn’t like what she saw in me. I was used to this, especially from women and that especially was most especially from older women. They had experience. They saw things other people didn’t see. She didn’t like what she saw in me. She didn’t like that her grandson hit the breakfast table with an angry cut over his eye that had to be closed by plasters. She didn’t like that her grandson hit the breakfast table with a cut over his eye and the news he had a girl in their guest room.
She didn’t like her grandson with me.
“At least have coffee, some toast,” she encouraged.
Hells bells.
I had never been a guest in anyone’s home but I suspected it would be rude to say no three times.
“Thanks,” I whispered, moved to the chair she indicated as Gray scooted his back.
“I’ll get it,” he muttered.
“No,” I said quickly and sharply though I didn’t know why and I shouldn’t have done it.
Gray’s eyes cut to me and I felt his grandmother’s on me. His brows were slightly drawn; he was confused at my tone.
“Please,” I said quietly, “don’t interrupt your breakfast for me. I can pour a cup of coffee.”
He studied me a second, jerked his chin up slightly, settled back in his chair and pushed himself to the table.
I went to the coffeemaker that had a half-full pot and had also been pulled to close to the edge of the counter likely so Grandma could get to it should she want to wheel herself over there to refresh her cup. Beside it was a stand with a bunch of mismatched but all interesting cups (and all big, apparently ranchers or orchard people liked their coffee) hanging from hooks.
I nabbed a cup, turned it on its bottom on the butcher block counter and grabbed the pot. Then it hit me and I turned to the table.
“Does anyone need a warm up?” I asked, lifting the pot.
Gray looked at me and answered, “Thanks, I’m good, Ivey.”
“I could use a warm up,” Grandma Miriam said.
I nodded, moved to her, warmed up her cup then moved back and got my own.
I barely had my bottom planted in the seat by Grandma Miriam before Gray offered, “Least have some toast. You gotta try Gran’s preserves.”
I looked to the pot of jam.
She cooked eggs.
She made jam.
In a wheelchair.
I thought this was very interesting.
“That sounds great,” I murmured and before I could protest, Gray was out of his seat, in a cupboard and he came back with a small plate that had frilly edges and flowers printed on it, leaning across the table to put it in front of me.
The toast was already buttered, perfectly toasted, light and golden. I grabbed a slice, tagged the jam and prepared it. Then I splashed milk in my coffee, spooned in a sugar. Silently I went about eating and sipping.
Great coffee. I was right about the toast, perfect. And the jam was amazing. Jam, I thought, was jam. But I was wrong.
Granny nightgown. Homemade preserves. Strawberry wallpaper. Wilted flowers here and there.
I loved Grandma Miriam and it was just my life that she would never love me.
“So, how old are you, Ivey?” Grandma Miriam asked and my eyes slid to her.
This was not good. If she wanted to affect a third degree, I was sitting at her table. I was drinking her coffee. I’d slept in one of her beds. I was eating her preserves. And her grandson had bled for me.
I couldn’t avoid it.
Darn.
“Twenty-two,” I answered.
Her eyes moved over my face before coming back to mine to compliment, “You have very pretty hair.”
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“And unusual eyes,” she went on. “Lovely.”
“Thanks,” I repeated on a whisper.
“Did you get
“Really,” I shook my head, “thank you but no. Gray has been very kind, I’ve taken a lot of his time already and I’m really not a breakfast person. Especially not this early. But again, thank you.”
I wondered if I was laying on the gratitude too thick. I could tell by her assessing eyes, her blank face and her aloof manner that she didn’t like what she saw in me. I was used to this, especially from women and that especially was most especially from older women. They had experience. They saw things other people didn’t see. She didn’t like what she saw in me. She didn’t like that her grandson hit the breakfast table with an angry cut over his eye that had to be closed by plasters. She didn’t like that her grandson hit the breakfast table with a cut over his eye and the news he had a girl in their guest room.
She didn’t like her grandson with me.
“At least have coffee, some toast,” she encouraged.
Hells bells.
I had never been a guest in anyone’s home but I suspected it would be rude to say no three times.
“Thanks,” I whispered, moved to the chair she indicated as Gray scooted his back.
“I’ll get it,” he muttered.
“No,” I said quickly and sharply though I didn’t know why and I shouldn’t have done it.
Gray’s eyes cut to me and I felt his grandmother’s on me. His brows were slightly drawn; he was confused at my tone.
“Please,” I said quietly, “don’t interrupt your breakfast for me. I can pour a cup of coffee.”
He studied me a second, jerked his chin up slightly, settled back in his chair and pushed himself to the table.
I went to the coffeemaker that had a half-full pot and had also been pulled to close to the edge of the counter likely so Grandma could get to it should she want to wheel herself over there to refresh her cup. Beside it was a stand with a bunch of mismatched but all interesting cups (and all big, apparently ranchers or orchard people liked their coffee) hanging from hooks.
I nabbed a cup, turned it on its bottom on the butcher block counter and grabbed the pot. Then it hit me and I turned to the table.
“Does anyone need a warm up?” I asked, lifting the pot.
Gray looked at me and answered, “Thanks, I’m good, Ivey.”
“I could use a warm up,” Grandma Miriam said.
I nodded, moved to her, warmed up her cup then moved back and got my own.
I barely had my bottom planted in the seat by Grandma Miriam before Gray offered, “Least have some toast. You gotta try Gran’s preserves.”
I looked to the pot of jam.
She cooked eggs.
She made jam.
In a wheelchair.
I thought this was very interesting.
“That sounds great,” I murmured and before I could protest, Gray was out of his seat, in a cupboard and he came back with a small plate that had frilly edges and flowers printed on it, leaning across the table to put it in front of me.
The toast was already buttered, perfectly toasted, light and golden. I grabbed a slice, tagged the jam and prepared it. Then I splashed milk in my coffee, spooned in a sugar. Silently I went about eating and sipping.
Great coffee. I was right about the toast, perfect. And the jam was amazing. Jam, I thought, was jam. But I was wrong.
Granny nightgown. Homemade preserves. Strawberry wallpaper. Wilted flowers here and there.
I loved Grandma Miriam and it was just my life that she would never love me.
“So, how old are you, Ivey?” Grandma Miriam asked and my eyes slid to her.
This was not good. If she wanted to affect a third degree, I was sitting at her table. I was drinking her coffee. I’d slept in one of her beds. I was eating her preserves. And her grandson had bled for me.
I couldn’t avoid it.
Darn.
“Twenty-two,” I answered.
Her eyes moved over my face before coming back to mine to compliment, “You have very pretty hair.”
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“And unusual eyes,” she went on. “Lovely.”
“Thanks,” I repeated on a whisper.
“Did you get
Similar Books
