“I wish I knew who sent it,” she says quietly. “I’d have a word with them.”
We chat for a little longer, and I think I convince her to keep the money. When I hang up, I lie back on the couch. My heart pounds, so I inhale, exhaling slowly to calm myself.
I pick up my phone. Grant answers on the fourth ring.
“Hello?” Sleepiness coats his voice.
“Oh, shit. Did I wake you? I’m so sorry.”
“No, no.” I hear some muffled rustling noises, and he grunts. “It’s okay. I swear.”
“I was going to ask you to come over,” I say, “but I’ll let you go back to bed.”
“Oh, hell no,” he breathes. He sounds more awake. “Give me your address. I’ll come over right now.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your precious sleep time,” I say, and I’m not even being sarcastic. He doesn’t get enough sleep to be sacrificing any of it.
“Kendall,” he growls, “if you want me to come over, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Fine.” I give him my address, then I get up and pace my apartment for a little while. By the time I answer my door, I’ve ramped up to an anxiety level worthy of a tiger attack.
“Whoa.” Grant takes in my tapping foot and my twitchy demeanor. “Are you okay?”
“You sent my mom money!” I nearly scream it at him. I gesture for him to come inside, and he follows, still eyeing me with some wariness.
He follows me to the kitchen counter.
“You can’t prove it was me,” he says.
“Grant.”
“All right.” He leans onto the counter. He wears a T-shirt and basketball shorts, and his forearms are thick and ondisplay as he pushes against the counter, though I’m not going to dwell on that right now. “The dress didn’t feel like enough, and I knew thatyouweren’t ready to take anything else from me.”
“I feel weird about it, though. You don’t think it’s icky? Also, are you trying again to buy my forgiveness? I told you that wouldn’t work.”
“It just felt like the least I could do.”
“Okay.” I sag against one of my kitchen barstools. My adrenaline has drained a little. “I mean, I do appreciate it. I’m not going to make you take it back or anything. She needs it.”
“I didn’t do it for the thank you.”
“Yeah, I know.” I move into the kitchen. “You want something to drink? Wine or something?”
“No,” he says.
When I turn again, he’s staring at me. He swallows. I watch the slide of his Adam’s apple up and down with the intensity of a starving woman at a buffet. His eyes track over my thin pajama shorts and top, snagging on my bra strap that peeks out.
He reaches for me, and I reach for him, and then we are absolutely ravenous.
He backs me up against the wall, caging me in between his arms. There are a few seconds where we take a breath together, our chests rising and falling with the weight of the moment. I twine my arms around his neck, and he pushes his thigh between mine in a reenactment of our kiss earlier this week. I start to rock against his leg, and he grabs my ass, urging me on.
“Kendall,” he moans before he kisses me.
The first touch of our lips sends a tingling spark down my spine. His lips are soft and pliant. I want to kiss him for hours, days, for the rest of my life. For that moment, I don’t care about hating him. I only want the next press of our lips together. I push my tongue into his mouth, and he nudges even closer tome, and now I’m really riding his thigh, rubbing myself against him without an ounce of shame.
I pull away, but his mouth follows, and he kisses down the side of my neck and shoulder. His warm lips find the skin just under the strap of my tank top. I shiver.
“Bedroom?” I incline my head toward my room.
