As the taxi pulled away, Greyson found himself alone, standing in front of what was to be his home for the summer. A nearly burned down cigarette hung from between his lips as he took it all in. âWell...damn. This definitely isnât a cottage.â he thought to himself. From Derekâs description, Greyson was expecting something much smaller and more quaint. But hey, heâd take this over four walls and 100 square feet in Brooklyn any day.Â
Admittedly, this wasnât his first choice of how heâd be spending his summer. If he had his way, heâd be working for Random House trying to get his manuscript published but, with a lot of encouragement and multiple bottles of tequila, he decided that a summer spent with some of closest friends would be an interesting story at the very least. He shook his head, ashed the last of his cigarette, and headed towards the house.Â
Once inside, he was astounded by how the house was decorated and, although he wouldnât admit it out loud, was in disbelief that he was living here the whole summer. He took a quick look around before finding his way upstairs to his bedroom. âUn-fucking believable.â he muttered under his breath once he looked around his room. He tossed his bags onto the bed and wandered over to the giant floor to ceiling window, overlooking the beach. This place would definitely provide much inspiration for his writing and he couldnât wait to get started. He took out his phone and put on some music as he unpacked to make him feel like he wasnât alone. As he got further along, he felt a pair of eyes burning into his back. Grey turned around, surprised at the figure. âWell, well, well...this place ainât too shabby, huh? I almost didnât recognize you there.â