Guarding Grayson by Cathryn Cade Read Free Book Online Page B

him into the deep end of Brynne’s memories of the night she died.
    Brynne. She was here, in this house … unless she’d disappeared as suddenly as she came.
    He sat up, tossed back the covers and bolted to his feet. At least he was still clothed in jeans and tee, and his socks. He padded into the hallway, listening carefully. Quiet.
    He walked to the door of the spare room, but it was empty, then turned back toward the sitting room. She was there, on the sofa … or over it, anyway. Gray froze in mid-yawn, the hair standing up on the back of his neck.
    Brynne sat cross-legged, hands on her thighs in a yoga pose, her eyes closed. Floating, several inches above the sofa.
    Okay, then. He was still in the weird zone, and it had all happened, the night before, just the way he remembered it.
    “Good morning, Gray-son,” his visitor said, opening her eyes. She sank gracefully to the sofa and rose to her feet, facing him. She looked different, more rested, with more color in her complexion. Which was when Gray noticed the other thing different about her.
    “Holy crap. You cut your—her hair,” he said, staring at her in disbelief.  Brynne’s silky, past-shoulder-length hair had been whacked until nothing was left but short layers around her face and head.
    “Does it not appear normal?” She asked, her hands fluttering up, then back down.
    It looked fine, in fact it looked kind of pretty, looping up in loose curls that revealed her dainty earlobes and the line of her throat, and emphasized her big brown eyes. Brynne had spent the better part of an hour each morning taming her hair into a silky, straight swathe. And Gray had loved messing it up, running his hands through it, especially when he—no, not going there.
    “It looks … short,” he said. “Really short.”
    “I was unable to free the foreign matter from the tangles,” she said. “So I thought it best to simply remove the damaged portions. I accessed a human hair fashion site for information on how to proceed. However, if Brynne is unhappy, I calculate it will return to its former length in nine or ten of your lunar months. Will that be satisfactory?”
    Gray shook his head. “Oh, no. Don’t ask me. Far be it from me to predict a woman's reaction to that kind of thing. But I’m betting on very unhappy.”
    Gah, he needed caffeine. He yawned and shoved his own hair back, eyeing her dubiously. “I need a shower. Think you can stay out of trouble for that long? No more major revisions to Brynne, no other kind of mayhem.”
    She nodded gravely, somehow managing to impart the dignity of an ambassador in foreign environs. “I will endeavor to stay out of trouble, Gray-son. And you should definitely utilize your cleansing unit. As you humans say, ‘You stink’.”
    “Touché. I’ll clean up, and then feed you—or the two of you.”
     
    He showered in record time, shoved his hair behind his ears and pulled on a clean Henley tee of faded red and a pair of clean jeans and went back to the kitchen.
    Brynne-E’ea had her head in the frig and her sexy—if currently too skinny—ass sticking out at him, her bare legs on display below the hiked up hem of his tee, and the lower curve of one ass cheek. Desire hit him low in the gut like one of her soft hands skimming down his belly and grabbing his stiffening cock.
    He reached down to adjust himself in his suddenly too-snug jeans, wincing. Okay, remember the way she’d looked when she got here—death warmed over. Yeah, that worked, sending a shudder through him that was the opposite of sexy.
    “Hungry?” he asked, reaching into the cupboard for the bag of designer roast coffee he’d been lucky enough to find in Roswell. If there was one thing North-Westerners were picky about, it was their coffee. Had to be strong and dark.
    “Yes, extremely,” his guest said, straightening with a jar in her hand. “Where is an eating utensil?”
    Gray grimaced as he saw what she held. “Ugh, don’t eat that.