Top Author Mariah Dietz Ad on facebook

Grey sits beside me, his shoulders, hips, and thighs pressing against me. It’s the closest we’ve ever been, aside from the night he walked me to my car when I nearly tripped over my own fears until he caught me. We haven’t exchanged a single word since the elevator on our way to breakfast, and the tension is eating at me from the inside out. I glance over at him, and he appears completely at ease, making the tension inside me growl a protest. He’s barely acknowledged me, which isn’t like us. We generally spar and poke. He criticizes my poor eating choices and addiction to coffee, and I prod him for being too serious and grouchy. Then we avoid each other and roll our eyes—or I roll my eyes—and we each go on our merry little way. I need the universe to return us to this norm. “You don’t get motion sickness, right?” The question pops out of me, hoping to find something to heckle and tease him for. Grey lowers the lap bar as instructed, widening his legs to pull it lower so it also hits my thighs. His knee is now touching mine. We would have managed less contact if I had slept in the bed with him last night than we do now, strapped down to a pseudo log preparing to fall down a giant waterfall. Twice. “No, but you’re looking a little pale. You aren’t going to faint, are you?” he asks. I’m pale because he’s pressed against me, and I smell the spice and hint of citrus from his cologne which is annoyingly perfect. Because Emma is hitting on him, a

𝐆𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐲 𝐅𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫, 𝐅𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐮𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞, 𝐎𝐡 𝐌𝐲! My attention is tugged toward the front, where broad shoulders wrapped in a white button-down demand notice. I take in the trim waist and large hand, the jacket folded over his forearm, before climbing back to those impressive shoulders and higher to see his face, forgetting about everyone and everything else. Strong squared jaw, the hint of a scowl, a straight nose, piercing blue eyes, and dishwater blond hair send a wave of panic coursing through me as recognition and shame tell me I’ve just ogled—publicly—the wrong person. For a split second, I consider slinking under the small table and crawling toward the nearest exit to escape, but Greyson Meyers smells blood in the water—my blood—and his eyes flick to mine. He skirts his gaze over me and the empty seat at my table for two. Greyson, or Grey, is teammates with my oldest and best friend, Hudson McKinley, who is like a brother to me. Hudson is the only reason that Grey-I-only-glower Meyers and I know each other and sometimes spend time in the same building. Luck arrives in the form of another server stopping to refill my water. “Are you off soon?” I ask her, my voice caught between a plea and a whisper. Her caramel-colored eyes fall to me, wide with alarm. “Uh … sorry?” “I’ll buy you a drink or dessert. Both