608 Alpha Ave - Adriana Locke Page 0,13

I tell him as he catches up to me. “It doesn’t feel like work.”

“Then that’s what you should do with your life.”

I smile. “See? That’s what I think. I’ve finally found the one thing that makes me feel … complete. The thing that feels like it was a part of me from the start.”

We walk quietly down the path and over tree roots and around potholes the size of my car. I take every opportunity to let my eyes feast on the man walking with me.

He’s as handsome and as sexy as he always is. But out here, there’s something calm about him, something centered, that brings him to a whole other level.

Grayson isn’t just the broody mechanic. Here, in this space, he’s the thoughtful, broody mechanic. He’s the inquisitive, shields-down, conversationalist broody mechanic. And I like it. Very much.

“So, these questions you have for me,” he says, “they have to do with your book?”

The easiness of the conversation fades away, floating on the breeze right along with Grayson’s question. In its place is the stress and frustration that I live with on a daily basis.

My shoulders tense. “Yeah. It does. Partly.”

He looks at me over his shoulder. “And the other part?”

“Men are just so … full of shit,” I say, keeping my eyes on the path. “Which is fine. Women are too half of the time.”

“Half?”

“Three-quarters?” I flip my eyes to him and laugh. “But I feel like I’m walking on the path of life, and it’s dangerous, you know? You’re supposed to do it as a team. I’m wearing my I Still Need A Partner shirt, but every time a man offers me his hand, he ends up saying I never wore that shirt—that he had no idea what I was looking for.”

Grayson nibbles on his bottom lip as he lets my words marinate.

“I get that we need to test out different hands in life,” I say. “You have to find the one that fits. But I don’t want to be the girl who tests out hands for ten years and then finally takes one that doesn’t really fit just because it’ll do, and then stumbles down the freaking path for the next sixty years because I’m halfway dragging the other person along.”

His lip pops free. “That’s a lot of metaphors.”

“Yeah. It is.” But I desperately don’t want to end up alone, and it seems the only thing I do have is metaphors.

Grayson stops ahead of me and points into the trees. “There’s a path through there that will wind us back to this one over by Wildflower Falls.” He looks around. “This path isn’t too busy. It’s up to you.”

A woman’s laughter makes its way from the area in front of us. And while we might just pass her and be done with it, getting to utilize Grayson’s willingness to listen and talk is something I’d like to do uninterrupted.

“Let’s take your secret path,” I tease.

He shakes his head but leads me through a small patch of weeds. Then, just as he promised, a lightly used trail appears out of nowhere.

“I think this was popular years ago,” he says as we hike up a small incline. “Then they monetized the Falls with rafts in the summer and all that bullshit, and everyone forgot about this trail and the smaller lake.”

“Lucky you.”

He shrugs.

“So, tell me what a woman should know about a man. What drives you? What motivates you? What makes men tick?” I ask.

He laughs. It’s a carefree sound that’s full of amusement and without judgment.

Hall-le-freaking-lujah.

“That would be like me asking you what makes women tick,” he says.

“And I’d answer that with shopping, pizza, and Jason Momoa.”

He rolls his eyes.

“It’s true,” I tell him. “I promise.”

“Well, men aren’t exactly complicated, but we can’t all be jammed into a box either.” He pauses. “Take Bryant, for example. Do you think the two of us are the same?”

“No. He’s nice. You’re an asshole.”

I flinch as the words tumble out of my mouth. It’s an asshole thing of me to say, and I start to apologize when Grayson laughs.

“True,” he says. “He’s nice. I’m real.”

I’m real.

What the hell does that mean?

We walk along in silence for a couple of minutes. The path becomes less developed, and the flora on the sides encroaches on us. Greenery sweeps against my legs, and I realize I should’ve worn jeans.

Oops.

“Bryant and I do have similarities,” he says out of nowhere.

I hustle to catch up with him. “Really? Like what?”

“We both enjoy a hard day’s