Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Carl lifted his gaze across the square dining table and sighed. “Truthfully, yes. Being Jason, I felt confident.”
“You could’ve given pretty much the same speech as Carl.”
“With what to back me up? I haven’t done anything remotely courageous in my life.”
“I haven’t known you very long, but what I’ve seen says otherwise. You’ve a strong sense of justice. You’ve been helping and sticking up for Leo since you met him.” Grayson leaned in. “To the point of becoming his piano instructor. I don’t know how you’ll pull it off, but I understand why you offered.”
Carl swallowed. “You weren’t going to tell me off for that?”
“Is that why you ran off?”
“You were shaking your head at me.”
“Well, I’m not without concerns. But your motivations were sincere.”
“I should’ve stayed. Those words are pleasantly relieving.”
“Have you thought about how you’ll teach him?”
“I have a plan. I’ll get Jason to follow it when he returns.”
“Your poor brother will have many new responsibilities to assume.”
“I’ll find a way to make it up to him.” Carl eyed fluffy Grayson spooning more of his chicken soup. The way he blew on the spoon, carefully slid it into his mouth and gulped softly with a satisfied twitch at his mouth . . . “The grass is greener, personified.”
A blink. “What?”
“This soup is good, but watching you eat it, it looks tastier. I want your bowl.”
Grayson curled a protective arm around his soup bowl, blocking Carl’s curious and advancing spoon.
“Could you be any more precious?”
“The others call me handsome.”
“Have they seen you dressed like a bunny nibbling at soup? I should take a picture.”
Grayson wagged his spoon back at Carl. “Don’t you dare.”
Their spoons collided with a vibrating chink, and then they were sword-fighting and laughing—Grayson between a few coughs—until Grayson retreated and gave in. Carl dunked his spoon into his soup and brought it to his lips. His veins hummed with triumph and Grayson’s amused head-shake, the twinkle in his dark eye, had Carl smiling—
“Didn’t think you’d be so keen to catch this,” Grayson said with an emphasising cough.
“. . . You make an excellent point.” Carl was about to lower the spoon when he caught an odd, smokey scent. He glanced at the liquid and shot his head up to Grayson. “That is not the same soup.” He snagged Grayson’s bowl, dragging it over the table to look, to inhale more deeply. “You heated up my soup?”
“I was taught to respect people’s effort. Politeness. Turns out”—he grimaced—“I’m really, really polite.” Grayson took his bowl back and quietly forced himself to eat more.
“You didn’t—don’t—have to eat it.”
“You looked after me last night.”
“That was . . . was . . . social responsibility! Nothing that requires you to sacrifice your tastebuds.”
Grayson took another mouthful, staring stubbornly at Carl in a way that had him . . . hiccupping.
And hiccupping.
In fact—he palmed his chest a few times—he couldn’t stop hiccupping. He tried gulping water and, at another jump in his chest, spilled it down his front. Wow, he was on form tonight.
Grayson lifted a tissue from his pocket, started to offer it, looked at it, and scrunched it back into his pocket. “Bathroom’s that way.”
Carl lunged down the hall into the bathroom and stayed hidden behind its closed door. Look at him. He’d done a number on his flannel too. He undid the buttons and wrung out the water soaked into it. He released his held breath and stared at his reflection in the mirror. “Hiccup again and you never have to face your ex or your mother.”
The wish was so strong that, of course, no hiccup came.
He sighed. At least the hiccups were over.
He quickly did up his buttons and snuck out of the bathroom, only to see, in the brighter light of the hallway, that’d he’d messed up the sequence. He fiddled about undoing the buttons again and paused at an open doorway. This must be the master bedroom. The light was off, but he made out a large king bed and some side cabinets, and—what was that painting above the bed?
Curiosity got the better of him. He snuck into the room on light feet, eyes fixed on the dark frame. It was some sort of—
Carl tripped over the upturned lip of a rug. He stumbled forwards, arms flailing as he tried to catch his balance. He reached out to brace against the bed, only to—like a complete muppet—trip over his own foot and fall face-first onto a soft quilt.
“Seriously?” he groaned onto a wedge of pillow. He rolled over and froze at the sight of the painting looming overhead. Who was this Grayson, really? Why did he have a picture like that? Why did he hang it where he slept?!
He stared at the image. A doll-like figure, shrouded in shadows, dancing mechanically—maniacally?—across the canvas like someone pulled at its strings. It was all dark against a darker background—eerily like the endless depth in Grayson’s eyes—and like those eyes, it made him shiver.