She starts to nod, and then it turns into a headshake, and then—ah, hell—she’s crying. “Rae?”
Her tears are silent, her body tense, the paper pressed hard to her chest.
“Come here.” I grab the ream and set it aside, and after the briefest of struggles, she’s in my arms, shaking.
It takes a while for the tears to work themselves out from silent, racking sobs to calm to hiccuping, and, finally, a few long, shaky breaths.
“I’m okay,” she says against my chest. “Just let me…”
I tighten the hug. “Stay. Stay.”
The way she relaxes in my hold tells me she needs this.
Damn, she feels good.
“I got you,” I whisper. “Stay right here.”
“I hate crying. Sucks.”
I let out a quiet huff of laughter. “I know. I know. What do you need?”
I cradle her warmth to mine, set my cheek on her head, and listen.
“What I need? For Sam to answer my calls. And, and you know, for the company I work for not to be in trouble.” A shaky exhale. “And my dad is doing a play, which is good, right? No big deal. But he’s got this… condition. His h-h-heart.”
Dammit. I slow my breathing, soak up her shaking.
“He’s not supposed to get his heart rate up, but the app keeps beeping, and he’s acting like it’s fine, but what if he’s actuallygetting sicker and just hiding it? Because the thing is, we lost Mom, and I can’t… I can’t… I can’t do it again, Grant. I can’t lose him too. And did you know it’s September sixteenth?”
“It is. Yeah. It is.”
“Mom died twenty years agotoday…”The last word’s basically a hiccup. “And I missed the date because of you!”
“Because of me?”
“You, distracting me with your dark eyes and big hands and the way you say my name.” The accusation warms me. “And Dad’s busy acting, so he doesn’t care, and Otty’s working, drinking all the time, Hannah’s barely making it through with her shitty husband, the kids don’t have their father, and because of you, I forgot to buy Mom flowers.”
“Oh, baby. Rae. Sweetheart.” I touch my lips to her hair, her temple. “Come here. Come here.” She tilts her head up, and I lean down to meet her.
Her mouth is warm against mine. So soft. So damned sweet.
She pulls away, sniffling, runs her hand across her nose, and says, “I can’t keep them all safe if they’re running around like that, can I?”
“They’re okay, sweetie. They’re safe.” I kiss her again and press my forehead to hers.
She clenches my arm and yanks at my shirt. The stroke of her hot fingers on my skin makes my muscles jump. My arms tighten. It’s a struggle, and I’m losing. I’m trying to calm her, but she’ll have none of it. I haul her up and push her back against the shelves, thinking I’ll tamp down all this wildness, give her another kiss, and help her figure it out. But then she’s got her leg up around my waist, and what started as comfort is a frantic grabbing of hands.
Our breathing is wild, our movements chaotic. She’s undone my pants, and I’ve got her skirt up and—“No panties,” I breathe. But also, “Fuck, you’re not wet enough.”
“I’m fine, Grant.” She tears at my fly, yanking it down. “Just do it.”
Next thing I know, my cock’s pulsing in her hand. I can’t think. Can’t function with how hungry she is. How hot.
“You want this?” I ask, against her mouth.
“I need it,” she says. “Just this. Just this.”
Gathering the very last bits of my wits, I grab the supply room door and drag it shut.
