Grayson hadn't let go, and now he was leading Neville deeper into the garden, their joined hands swinging slightly between them.
The warmth from Grayson's palm seeped into Neville's skin, traveled up his arm, and settled somewhere in his chest where it had no business being. He tried not to think about it.
He tried not to focus on how natural it felt, how right—no, that wasn't the word.
Convenient. It was convenient for some purpose. That was all there was to it.
"What kinds of ingredients do you want to buy?" Grayson asked, his voice a low, steady rumble that cut cleanly through Neville's internal struggle.
The question caught him off guard.
He glanced up at his boss—no, at Grayson—who didn't seem the least bit bothered that they were still holding hands. He wasn't just not bothered—he looked completely comfortable, as if this level of proximity were a given. Maybe he was reading too much into it, but it was annoying that he seemed to be used to this kind of interaction.
