Guarding Grayson by Cathryn Cade

and down her crossed arms. She needed something to do. Stay busy, that was it.
    Then she wouldn’t have time to be scared of what was going to happen next, or how to get Gray to love her again, or how long E’ea was going to expect to borrow her body—and God knew that alone was enough to send a girl whimpering into a fetal position in the nearest corner—or how she was supposed to walk back into her life and explain to everyone that she wasn’t dead after all.
    That is, if she got to stay here this time.
    “I don’t have to go back there again, do I?” she asked, rubbing harder. But there was no answer, and ouch! Her own touch was too rough. Her skin felt fragile, as if she was getting over the flu.
    She drew a shaky breath, nearly a sob again. Yeah, she was getting over being dead.
    Don’t think about that, don’t remember the weird headlights that had blinded her, or the car lurching over the rocks and then falling like a rock only to slam into the water, and sink down, down into the cold blackness, until the windshield cracked and water began to stream in around the airbag …
    Brynne sucked in a huge, desperate breath, hanging onto the sink. It was okay, she was okay. She was here, in Gray’s house, and he was in the other room, and there was no water anywhere except the tap dripping slowly into the sink … which was gross, now that she looked at it. Gray wasn’t much good at cleaning up after himself.
    She dove under the sink and pulled out the cleaning supplies, relief buoyant in her chest. Okay, something to do that she understood. She’d clean this bathroom, and then move onto the rest of the house. She’d make Gray happy that she was here to take care of him again.
    * * *
    Gray set his brush in the jar of turps, and then turned back to survey his painting, moving his shoulders to ease their stiffness. He was tired, but it was a good tired—he’d been painting for a couple, no three hours by the clock on the wall. The painting was coming along—he’d painted in more details of the ship and the man, his face recognizable now. And damn if this Logan Stark didn’t look a little like Gray.
    He wasn’t painting himself into the picture, was he? He examined the painting and then shook his head. No, the man’s face felt right—the harsh angle of his cheeks, the determination in his jaw, the curve of his wide mouth, as if it could turn sensual or adamant, and the glint in his gray eyes, gazing out at his world with an arrogance that said he’d take it on and tame it to his specifications—already had in fact.
    “You’re a selfish bastard, aren’t you?” Gray muttered to him, grinning wryly. “You got that from me. Although, the empire building … Don’t know where the hell that comes from.” Some other future family member, maybe.
    Gray wiped his hands on a cleaning rag. It would be good to finish the painting, then maybe the dreams would let go of him.
    Time for a cold drink, and then … he smelled something good cooking. E’ea couldn’t cook. That meant Brynne was still around. Guilt roiled in his gut. Brynne—she’d awakened, and been upset, and he’d meant to keep an ear tuned to her. Be there if she got too upset. Not hang with her, exactly, because he didn’t want to be sending the wrong signals, like he wanted them back together so he could watch over her and make sure she stayed safe, until time erased that lost look in her beautiful brown eyes.
    But she’d been quiet, and he’d gotten engrossed in his work. It was nearly six o’clock, time to see what she was up to, and check out that savory scent too.
    Then he walked into his bathroom, and found it sparkling, smelling of cleaner, all his untidiness cleared away. Hell, she’d even straightened his shaving kit. She was doing it again—pampering him. Next she'd be sitting near him, watching him with that look that said she was ready to figure out what he needed before he did.
    He washed his hands with the brusqueness of