“Really? No. No, I mean, yeah, you’ll be the first, but, I, um, I made something. For you.”
She blinks. “Okay.”
“Don’t be scared. It involves no whips or chains or… nothing dirty. I mean, you can make it dirty, but…”Shut your trap, Bowman.“Never mind.”
“Sure. I’ll come over.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Rae
ITRY TO WAITout the end of the event, but what’s the point? All I can do is make googly eyes at Grant. The few people who walk up to my booth end up leaving confused, because I’m clearly making no sense at all.
“Let’s go.”
Grant helps me pack my things into my car and gives me his address. When I pull up in front of his row house, all I can do is stare.
It is gorgeous. Skinny from the street with a bay window up front. The tiny pocket garden needs work, but the porch is deep and wide, and the front door has been painted the perfect blue, the brick the perfect off-white. I love everything about it.
He opens the front door and lets me in.
“Grant, your house is amazing.” If a little sparse inside. I don’t have time to remark upon the serious lack of decor or soft furnishings because he’s pulled me through the massive great room and the ginormous kitchen in back, out a rear door, and the most lavishly beautiful screen porch I’ve ever seen, into the backyard, where there is a…
“Um. This looks a lot like my…”Dream workshop?
I can’t quite finish because I am no longer entirely in my body. I glance up at him and back down at the shed. It’s painted a light almost-white that veers more toward pink than the white of his home’s exterior. It has windows with dark gray shutters and a dark gray door with a little pitched roof. “What… what did you want to show me?”
Even when he tugs at my hand, I don’t want to move because I know what this is, and it’s too much. Too huge a thing for Grant to do. Grant of the rules and lists and eight brands of scowl.
“Come on.” Another tug and I sail down the steps, along an adorable, cobbled path to the door, which has a tiny mailbox beside it. And a bell just like the one on my dream workshop. How closely did he look at that thing?
“What’d you do?” I ask, almost frantic at the idea that this man—who already went against his very grain by opening himself up to me at the market today, in front of a crowd, no less—would spend time and money and the effort to do this.
“I thought you were building houses.”
“I was. I am. I do… Open it.”
“But…”
“Go ahead.”
I slowly turn the handle and push the door. It opens so easily that I know it’s well oiled. Of course it is. Grant Bowman is a man who oils hinges. Inside is a wonderland of space and supplies. There are more shelves than in the miniature version. Of course he’d think of that. And cupboards. Everywhere.
“I… I’m not sure I understand.”
“It’s for you.”
“Grant.”
“If you want it. You don’t have to. No pressure. Dammit! I knew it was too much. It’s too much.” He reaches for the doorand starts to pull it closed, and then I see the cat lying on the tiny, plush white sofa, which is actually tufted velvet and probably cost more than my car.
“Who’s that?”
“How the hell’d you get in here?” He walks over and picks up the cat and then slings it over his shoulder like a newborn. “This is Devil Cat. I’ve got no idea how she gets inside.”
“She’s cute.”
“You think?” He pulls her back, puts his nose to hers, and wiggles it a bit. The cat swipes a cheek to his and then stares me down like I’d better not mess with her man. Or else. “She grows on you.”
