THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY arrived with a damp mist that clung to the cliffs, but inside the cottage, the air was thick with a different kind of tension.
Grayson stood in the center of the kitchen, looking at a pair of dark denim jeans as if they were a riddle designed to humiliate him. He was still shirtless—a state of being that Mailah had realized was his default setting whenever he wasn't being forced into "the wool prison," as he called Arthur's sweaters.
"These trousers is fundamentally flawed," Grayson declared, his voice a low, melodic rumble. He jabbed a finger at the zipper. "Why must a man struggle with a series of interlocking metal teeth just to cover his lower extremities? A simple wrap would suffice. Or better yet, nothing at all."
