Blind Warrior (The Weavers Circle #3) - Jocelynn Drake Page 0,30

I would have come out here, or at least we could have talked about it on the phone. Instead, you bottled it up and probably got no sleep, leaving me to threaten your grumpy ass through a door.”

“Okay, next temper tantrum, I call you after.”

“Damn straight.”

Grey closed his eyes and let himself relax against Cort. The fingers in his hair unclenched and Cort very gently petted his hair. “Thanks, Cort.”

“No problem. Even after Therapist Cort’s job is done, Friend Cort has no problem keeping an eye on you.”

“I’m glad,” Grey whispered, and he meant it. He’d landed some great brothers when he’d been born a Weaver, but it was nice to have a friend away from all the chaos and insanity that came with that life. He wasn’t ready to let Cort go yet.

Chapter 7

Cort wiped his eyes and gasped for air. Baer had him laughing so hard as he told the story of how he and Clay had tried to make a special dinner for their boyfriends, nearly setting the kitchen on fire. He glanced over at Grey, who was sitting next to him on the couch, his face in his hand, but he could still see the huge grin on his lips.

The week following Grey’s meltdown had been surprisingly good. They didn’t do much that first day besides get his apartment cleaned up and talk. That night, Cort stayed for dinner as moral support for Grey. The man needed to get back on that horse and keep trying. What had surprised Cort the most was the relief he’d seen in the rest of Grey’s friends when they saw that he was going to stay. Cort was serving as a guide for all of them during his difficult time.

From there, he and Grey had focused on work again. Grey was still as sarcastic and stubborn as ever, but there was no hiding that he also had a very protective and caring side to him that he preferred not to share.

“Wait a minute!” Dane shouted above the laughter. He handed a plate to Clay to place in the dishwasher as they cleaned up from lunch. “I remember that dinner. It was right after Lucien had shown up. He was…on a date or something. Nothing was burned.”

Cort watched Clay and Baer cringe as they looked at one another.

Grey dropped his hand from his face and smirked. “You’re welcome.”

“No!” Cort gasped on another laugh. “You cook?”

“I did,” Grey corrected.

“Oh, no. It don’t work like that, sir. You can still cook. You just need to borrow a couple of sets of eyes and hands. I’ve worked with you for two weeks now. You’re plenty bossy and can certainly handle telling one of your friends how to do things if you’re struggling.”

Grey snorted. “Really, now? That dinner, Baer ran up to my apartment as I was placing a delivery order. He begged for help. I turned around a simple chicken casserole and vegetables. They managed a salad.”

He settled on the couch so that his shoulder playfully bumped Grey’s arm. “I’m thinking that I need to stay for dinner soon. Get you in the kitchen again.”

“Fine, but you’re stuck being my eyes and hands.” Grey bargained with a wide grin while sticking his hand out.

“Done!” Cort grabbed his hand and shook it.

“Whoo-hoo! Grey’s cooking again!” Wiley shouted, thrusting his fists up into the air.

Grey slowly released Cort’s hand, and he swore he saw a blush on the man’s pale cheeks as he quickly turned his head toward the kitchen. Cort pushed the thought aside and mentally chastised himself for getting so comfortable with Grey. Lines were starting to feel blurred. It was getting harder to remember that he was there to do a job. That all these people weren’t just friends he saw every day. That would have been so nice.

Not that he was lonely. Not really. Work kept him busy. By the time he got home each day, finished with his paperwork, and made something for dinner, all he wanted to do was crash on the couch and stream something on the TV that didn’t require thought.

So what if he didn’t have a social life? And he hadn’t had a date in…

Yeah, definitely not gonna think about that.

He had a wonderful, supportive relationship with his right hand. Why go mess that up with dating and expectations?

The French doors opened suddenly off the breakfast nook, and an older woman with long, wind-blown hair breezed in, tossing flowers into the air as she skipped through the