“I know you’re sorry,” I say. “That’s just the bare minimum, though. I’m having a little fun with this, but I’m not sure what you could do to make me forget what you did.”
“I am sorry. You have no idea.” He bites his lip, a vicious pinch, before he speaks again. “I really, really want to kiss you again.”
God. I want it too. I’m trembling with it.
“I don’t think we should do that again.”
He drops his head into his hands. “Damn it.”
I laugh. “All right. Go get some dinner so you don’t pass out while you’re on call.”
“Okay.” He stares at me. “I understand.”
“I don’t think you do. Not yet.”
He frowns, then gives me one more longing look before he turns to go. I settle into the driver’s seat and take a deep breath.
And again, I ask: What the hell am I doing?
15
KENDALL
Two days later, Grant walks me to my car again. I try not to read too much into the implications.
“Do you want to do something?” Grant pushes through the door to the parking garage, and our steps echo in the cavernous space.
“What do you mean?” My heart rate picks up. I stumble on the downhill incline to our cars, and he steadies me with a hand. The warm, dry sensation of his palm on my bare arm shoots a little rush of pleasure along my skin.
“I don’t know, it’s a gorgeous day. One of my favorite parks is nearby and sometimes I like to go clear my head there. They’ve got a nice walking path. I was hoping you could join me.” When he sees my skeptical look, he rushes on. “It can be a platonic walk, if you can tolerate my presence.”
Warmth suffuses my body. Unfortunately, part of the problem is my uncertainty about wanting things to remain completely chaste, but a walk before I go home for the nightdoessound nice. He’s right about it being beautiful out—one of those real chamber-of-commerce days with warm sun, a nicebreeze, blue skies, and an absence of the mugginess that plagues summer like a thick soup hanging in the air.
“You know what? Why not.”
Surprise registers on his face, but he covers it with an easy smile.
“You can follow me there.”
I’m jittery on the drive. Am I becoming real friends with Grant? Is that what’s happening here? The very notion is absurd, but I can’t ignore the evidence. Or I can, I suppose, but not if I’m being honest.
He meets me at the entrance, where tall lampposts mark each edge of the sidewalk. Trees and foliage line the low stone walls framing the park, and it’s gorgeous, though I don’t know enough about vegetation to name any of them. The scent of charred onions from the taco truck just down the street follows us. My mouth waters, both from the food cooking and the vision of Grant in his fitted scrubs.
“I’m surprised you didn’t change your mind,” he says. He’s smiling, but there’s real concern on his face, too, a tightness at the corners of his eyes.
“I’m a woman of my word.” We start down the path together, our steps in sync. I watch his long stride, his easy athleticism, with some fascination. “How come you wanted me here with you?”
“Would it be wrong to say I’d like for you to hate me a little less?”
I turn my head toward him. The dappled sunlight catches the blond in his hair and patches of his smooth skin. He’s trouble wrapped in a beautiful package, but there’s a hint of vulnerability there too. My chest squeezes without my permission.
“No, that’s not wrong.” I don’t say anything else.
We pass under a stone bridge. A little stream gurglesnearby. No one speaks for a couple of minutes. It’s pleasant, but I still don’t trust this shaky peace we’ve adopted.
“This is a new tactic, then?” We take a turn on the path, and I yelp as a bicycle nearly sideswipes me. Grant’s strong arms pull me into him.
“Sorry!” the cyclist calls back once he’s past us. Grant shoots him a dirty look, and I giggle.
