I wake up the next morning to high-pitched electric drills, the thunderous buzz of a miter saw, hammers pounding, and my father telling one of his famous jokes, followed by Greyson's polite laughter. The noise is coming from the backyard and pouring through my open bedroom window. We're coming up on prime hurricane season and North Carolina is experiencing a cold front because of it. A cold front that's making it feel like fall – like Halloween is right around the corner – and one I'm particularly fond of.

I roll over and grab my phone from my nightstand, groaning when I see it's not even eight o'clock. Who starts manual labor before eight o'clock in the morning? Who starts anything before eight o'clock in the morning?

I throw off my comforter and get out of bed. If I'm up I might as well be productive and go for a run, considering I haven't even taken so much as a walk since we got home from LA. Greyson has one of those luxury, custom made, California King PranaSleep mattresses, and I want to spend every spare second I have laying on it. They run something like ten-thousand-dollars and the rumor is that Oprah and the Prince and Princess of Wales sleep on one. It's the most comfortable thing I've ever slept on and when he leaves for work in the morning and I have the bed to myself, I roll into the middle and let it swallow me up. I barely get out of bed with enough time to get ready for work, let alone get in a run beforehand.

I wash my face, brush my teeth, and pull my hair into a ponytail before I squeeze myself into a mint green sports bra and black biker shorts, and as I make my way downstairs, I decide I want to have a little fun this morning. Be a little naughty. Greyson feasted on me like an all-you-can-eat-buffet when we were in LA, but besides last night, he's barely touched me since, and I feel like I'm going to explode. What I'm about to do may be a little childish, but I want to make it clear to him that he's not the only one who can tease.

He's not the only one who makes decisions in this relationship.

I slip out the side door and make my way up the driveway, and when I know I'm in Greyson's view, I turn my back to him and bend over, my ass in the air as I stretch out my hamstrings. Slowly and seductively, I run my hands down the backs of my legs. I open my feet so they're shoulder width apart, pressing the palms of my hands against the ground as I push for a deeper stretch, and when I look between my legs, Greyson is watching me, slack-jawed, one arm hanging loosely at his side with a hammer in one hand and the other dragging across his stubbled cheek. I gradually rise to standing – making sure to stick my ass out as I do – and when I turn all the way around and place my hands on my hips, a mischievous smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. His eyes travel up and down my body, and when he gestures to my tight sports bra and tiny shorts and gives me two thumbs up, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from laughing. He spreads his fingers and holds his hands up to his chest, indicating toward my boobs, and presses his thumb and pointer finger together in a hand gesture that means he thinks they look perfect. A boyish smile brightens his face and his pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he points to his groin, then to mine, and starts to enthusiastically hump the air, but he's interrupted when my father steps up beside him and smacks him on the back of his head, causing his baseball hat to fly off and land on the ground.

"What are you doing? What the hell are you doing? Are you...are you dry humping the air?" my father asks, glancing between the two of us. I cover my mouth to stifle my laughter. "That's my daughter."

Greyson picks up his hat and bows his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't help it. I'm just a man."

My father sighs and waves him off. "Get back to work, McKinnie."

He turns his hat so it's backwards – the way he knows I love – and winks at me. "Yes, sir."

I decide I've done enough damage for one morning, and start my dreaded five-mile run, laughing out loud when I hear the distant shouts of my father scolding Greyson for looking at his baby girl like she's a piece of steak and he's a hungry bear.

Little does my father know that I'd let said hungry bear absolutely devour me.

When I get home, I quickly make myself a fruit smoothie and go up to my room. I pull up Netflix on my television and start Grey's Anatomy from where I left off last night. It's the episode with the plane crash, and even though it's sad as hell and makes me sob every time I watch it, it's my favorite episode. But it's not holding my interest today. I'm trying to pay attention, but I keep migrating over to the window that overlooks my backyard instead. McSteamy and McDreamy are hot and all, and Dr. Jackson Avery has those dreamy eyes, but none of them hold a candle to the man outside. The man that's been occupying every single one of my thoughts as of late. I watch with titillated desire at the way the muscles in his biceps bulge as he pushes a plank of wood through a table saw. The way his pale blue t-shirt stretches across his broad back when he forcefully hammers nails into the corner of the frame. His backwards hat is keeping his hair off his face, and he removes a pencil from between his teeth and shoves it under one of the hat's side panels.

Why is a man doing manual labor such a turn-on? God, he's so fucking hot. Masculinity just oozes out of him, but sometimes, if he looks at me a certain way, he still resembles the teenage boy I left behind.

He's so beautiful it hurts.

With one last look, I force myself away from the window and throw open my closet door, settling myself on the floor as I look up at the vastness of my designer wardrobe. Even though I have off from the diner today, I still have plenty of work to do. I stayed up late researching blogs and how to start one, along with the benefits and downfalls of having a TikTok account, exactly what kind of money I can potentially make and how sponsorships work. I promised myself I'd spend the day prepping and filming two videos, not watching Greyson saw and hammer wood – no matter how incredibly sexy he looks while doing it.

Filming videos for TikTok is a lot harder than it looks. When I scroll through social media, it takes thirty seconds – a minute tops – to watch a reel or a video, and that's if I even bother to watch the entire thing. These videos are edited to the most minute detail. Clever captions and voiceovers are added, and they're usually set to the perfect track. So, what takes seconds to watch actually takes hours to film, and I have a newfound respect for anyone who considers themselves a social media influencer.

I can barely save a draft.

After some meticulous planning, I decide to be completely crazy and film four videos instead of two, because apparently, I love to torture myself. Two fashion tutorials – one on how to style and dress up loungewear and the other on how to dress cute but comfortable for a long flight – followed by a simple, smoky-eye make-up tutorial, and a how-to on styling hair with a Beachwaver curling iron.

I film, and edit, and add voiceovers that I'm not entirely comfortable with, along with music that makes for the perfect soundtrack, and before I know it it's nearly four o'clock and all I've had today is a smoothie.

I make my way downstairs – smiling to myself when I hear Greyson and my father laughing animatedly. His temperament – his overall well-being – has been slowly getting better all summer, but it's been even healthier since we got home from LA. He's been happier – lighter. Greyson told me he finally told Mitchell and Wyatt the truth about why he retired, and he gave me permission to tell Jo. So, now that the people closest to him know the truth, the weight he's been carrying for almost three years is finally gone.

I grab a yogurt out of the fridge and pull a glass down from the cabinet, and as I'm filling it with water from the tap, I can't help but watch Greyson from the window as he works. His face and hands are smudged with dirt, and his t-shirt is nearly soaked through with sweat, clinging to every muscular bump and ridge, but I can't stop watching him and the way he moves. So agile. So graceful. He lifts the heavy planks of wood and carries them across the yard with little to no effort. My father points and directs where he wants the planks to go and how he wants them to lay, and Greyson balances on the frame like he's floating while he hammers them in place.

The muscles in his back flex as he holds the lumber tightly, gliding a hand saw across an edge that's a bit too long. He removes his hat and lifts his arm to wipe the sweat off his forehead, and when he does, the hem of his shirt rises, exposing his tan, well-defined torso. My mouth goes dry, and my tongue feels like sandpaper as I rub it along the roof of my mouth.

Almost as if he knows I'm watching, he grabs the bottom of his shirt and lifts it, wiping sweat from the rest of his face. My eyes study his body frantically – as if I'm trying to burn this moment into memory – but freeze when they land on the V-shaped muscle above the waistband of his jeans. The one Nico commonly refers to as the sex muscle. The deeper the V, the bigger the P, he always says. Well, I haven't seen Greyson's 'P' since we were eighteen, but I feel it every time we're the slightest bit intimate. I know what he has to offer, and I can't remember a time when he didn't leave me completely satisfied.

I suck my bottom lip into my mouth and bite down. "Jesus Christ. He's so freaking hot. What in the actual hell am I supposed to do with all that?" I think to myself.

"I think it's full."

"Oh!" My mother's voice startles me, and I drop the glass into the sink. "Jesus! What is with everybody sneaking up on me lately?"

"I said hello when I came in, but you didn't hear me. You were..." She stands next to me and looks out the window. "Distracted."

I turn around and rest my back against the edge of the sink as I dry my arms and hands with a kitchen towel. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Mmhmm." She grabs my glass and fills it with water, her thin lips turning up in a knowing smile as she slides it toward me. "Why don't you take this out to Greyson. He looks rather parched."

"What does that even mean?" I turn around just in time to see Greyson – who's now half-naked, with his t-shirt wrapped around his neck – pour a bottle over his head, beads of water rolling down his chiseled torso. "Oh my, God. Mom...ew! This isn't a porno."

"Sweetie, I don't know what kind of porn you watch, but the few I've seen, a glass of water is the last thing that's being offered."

"Oh, God. Just...stop talking." A shudder runs through me at the thought of my parents watching a porno together, and possibly reenacting it. I know they're still in love, but...gross. "Please."

"You're such a fuss budget. You didn't used to be like this."

"I'm not a...fuss budget. I'd just rather not hear about my parents watching porn, that's all. Pretty sure if you ask Addie, she'd say the same thing." I take the glass from her hand and drink it in its entirety. "He is hot though. Has he always been this sexy?"

"I don't think I can, or should, answer that."

He looks behind him for his nail gun and catches us staring at him through the window, and I can't help the broad smile from exploding across my face when he winks and waves at me with the tip of his pointer finger.

"I'm crazy about him, mom," I admit. "I think I'm more in love with him now than I was when we were kids. I just...I wanna be around him all the time. He makes me feel like everything that happened is just a blip on the radar. Like I'm gonna be okay."

"Because you are gonna be okay, sweetie. You are okay." She softly brushes her fingers through my curls and moves my hair behind my shoulders. "I'm so happy that you're feeling better, and I'm really glad that you and Greyson are finding your way back to each other. I've always known you two were meant to be together. But I also want you to be careful."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"I know you two love each other. You have since you first laid your eyes on each other. The feelings swirling between you right now are strong, and exciting, and they should be. I just don't want you to rush into anything."

"Rush into anything? How can I rush into a relationship with someone I was destined to be with? I mean, you just said you've always known we were meant to be together."

"And I meant it. All I'm saying is take your time. You've had a rough couple of months, and I don't want you getting wrapped up in a relationship you're not quite ready for."

I cross my arms over my chest and sigh heavily, growing defensive. "Mom, I don't wanna talk –"

"I'm not saying don't be with him. I'm just telling you to take your time. Go slow and remember to breathe." She takes my face in her hands. "The last thing I want is for either of you to get hurt."

I know my mother means well. She wants me to be happy, but she also wants to make sure I'm being smart. I understand where she's coming from, and I appreciate her concern for both Greyson and I, but I know in my heart that we're not rushing into anything.

Spending the last few weeks with Greyson has only reiterated what I've always known – he's the man I'm supposed to spend my life with. He's the man I love.

I kiss my mother on the cheek and head back to my room, and when I get there, I notice I have a bunch of activity on my phone. There are a few text messages from Jo – including a picture of Hannah posing in the lavender romper and white sandals I just got for her – several missed calls from an unknown number, and to my absolute surprise, notification after notification, along with hundreds of positive comments from TikTok and Instagram on the videos I uploaded earlier.

This is a lot more fun than I thought it would be. So, I guess there's only one real question I need to ask myself. Should I just go for it and become a full-fledged social media influencer?

It's nearly seven o'clock when my father and Greyson have finally finished for the day. They have some more work to do before it's complete, but they've been working since the sun came up and by the looks of them, they quit two hours too late.

"Would you like to stay for dinner?" my mother asks Greyson while he's washing his hands in the kitchen sink. I lift myself onto the countertop next to him and playfully splash him with the water coming out of the faucet. "As a thank you for all your help today."

"Oh, you don't have to cook for me, Mrs. James. I was happy to help."

"Who said anything about cooking? I was thinking we'd just order a pizza and some wings or something." She grabs the menu for the neighborhood pizzeria and hands it to my dad. "You won't let us pay you for your time. At least let us feed you."

"Well..." He looks to me for approval and I nod enthusiastically. "Sure. That'd be great. I'll go home and take a shower and pick up the food on my way back." He leans forward and places a small, fleeting kiss on my lips. It's quick, but sweet, and I don't even care that he smells like he's been working outside all day. "I'll be back."

He walks through the door an hour-and-a-half later with two large pizzas, a container of wings and a six-pack of Samuel Adams Boston Lager for my father. He also has a small bouquet of yellow roses. They look identical to the ones in our front yard.

"They look familiar," I say, setting my hands on my hips.

He presses his finger to his lips. "Shh. Don't tell on me, okay?"

"As long as you say they're for me I'll take your secret to the grave."

"Well, lucky for you my other girlfriend wasn't home when I stopped by her house on my way here. So, they're all yours."

"You always say the sweetest things to me," I say teasingly. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles, and I take the bouquet of roses when he extends it toward me. "Thank you. They're gorgeous."

"What're gorgeous?" my mother asks. She steps up beside me, and when she sees the flowers in my hands, her jaw drops, and an indignant scoff comes out of her mouth. "Are those...they look an awful lot like the roses I have growing in the bushes out front. Greyson McKinnie, tell me you didn't pick –"

"Is something burning?" I lift my nose in the air, wrinkling my brow as I pretend to smell smoke. "Oh no! My cookies!"

She throws her hands in the air and frantically runs toward the kitchen. "Shit, shit, shit!"

"Phew." He drags his hand across his forehead, wiping away fake sweat. "You saved me just in the nick of time. How will I ever repay you?"

"Hmm..." I tilt my head and purse my lips. "I can think of a few ways."

He wraps his hand around the back of my neck and pulls me in for a chaste, delicate kiss, and I pout when it ends too quickly. "Did I hear cookies? As in, chocolate chip, maybe?"

"Do you eat any other kind?"

With the pizzas and wings in one hand, he throws his other arm around my shoulders and leads us toward the kitchen. "There better be milk."

We sit down at the dining room table, stuffing ourselves with cheap carbs and empty calories, and while we do, we catch up on each other's lives. It's the first time just the four of have us been together since Greyson and I were in high school, and unsurprisingly, it feels like nothing has changed. We laugh and reminisce about the past. Greyson and my father banter over sports. How will the Carolina Panthers do this year? Is there a Superbowl in their future? How is it possible that the North Carolina Tar Heels make it so far in March Madness, yet can't make it all the way? Is it their coaching? Is Lebron James really worth all the hype he gets? Will Golden State win another championship this year?

Yet through all that talk, the topic of baseball never comes up. My father knows better, I guess. Even though Greyson has been doing so much better, nobody wants to make him upset, or uncomfortable, so without saying a word, we've all made a silent agreement that it's simply something we won't talk about unless Greyson brings it up first.

We tell my parents about our trip to LA. They barely hold back their laughter when Greyson tells them about how he forced me into doing karaoke, because me being onstage brings the most humiliating moment of my life to the forefront of everyone's mind, and eventually, I give them the okay to laugh at me. My mother fawns all over Greyson, telling him how romantic it was that he chose a hotel from one of my favorite movies, and how cool it is that he's such good friends with Mike Trout, and somehow, between all of that, old photo albums from my childhood are dug up and pictures are now scattered all over the dining room table.

There are pictures from birthday parties and holidays. Our Disney World trips throughout the years and our one-and-done camping trip to the Outer Banks. Adelaide found a spider in her sleeping bag and vowed to never step foot in the wilderness again. There are awkward