Without missing a beat, I slipped off one heel, then the other and started to run.
Ridiculous? Yes. But I wasn’t ready for Grant yet.
I had gotten rid of one impediment, but I still had my dress to contend with. It restricted my stride, and pulling it off like I’d done with my heels wasn’t an option—at least, not if I didn’t want to embroil Matchify in scandal and land myself in jail for public indecency.
Strange, giddy anxiety bubbled up in me as Grant drew closer and closer, until I was laughing in terror.
What would he do when he caught up?
An image of him catching me around the waist and hoisting me over his shoulder flashed across my mind just as he cut in front of me.
I put my hands out and skidded to a halt to avoid running into him. I barely managed to stop with my hands just shy of his chest.
He was grinning more widely than I’d ever seen, his chest rising and falling like mine was. “Date was that bad, huh?”
“I was running fromyou,” I said breathlessly, my hands on my hips.
“And why’s that?”
“Because I can already tell you’re full of opinions about it.”
He shrugged. “I can keep them to myself.”
I searched his face, my own highly skeptical.
He put a hand over his chest. “I solemnly swear not to share unsolicited opinions. Now, come on.” He jerked his head toward the street in front of us. “I’m starving, and I’m guessing you are too.”
I stood in place. “I just had dinner, Grant.”
“No, Vivian. You just had three exorbitantly priced appetizers.”
It was the first time he’d called me something other than Miss West, and it made me feel weird. Not bad weird. Just…weird. “They were very…nutritious,” I defended as I bent to slip on one of my heels.
“I could’ve bought you an equally nutritious bunch of kale for afraction of the pretentionandprice.”
Putting on the second heel, I wobbled slightly.
He grabbed my arm to keep me from toppling over.
I glanced up at him to say thank you, but he wasn’t looking at me.
He was staring ahead like he was looking for something. “There any good donut places around here?”
I let go of his arm and scoffed lightly. “Of course there are.”
“No need to be offended. I have no idea what donut standards you have—assuming you have any.”
I pressed my lips together. It was ridiculous how I could know full well that Grant was baiting me, but I still couldn’t keep from taking it. “Follow me.”
We walked two blocks to Dawson’s Donuts—the shop I requested deliveries from on rough days at work. And also on a few not-so-rough days. And, yes, sometimes I ran over on my lunch break on perfectly normal days.
Dawson’s was a small place between a bookstore and a bike repair shop. In the mornings, there was always a long line out the door, but since they were closing soon and it was a weeknight, we were the only ones in the shop.
“Miss West!” The owner, Mr. Dawson, was a man in his 50s with graying hair. He wiped his hands on his apron and leaned back to glance into the glass cabinet between us. “I think I’m just shy of your half-dozen, but I can throw in two Bismarks if you’d like.”
I ignored Grant’s amused but pointed look. Maybe I should’ve taken him to my second-favorite shop instead.
“Half-dozen of what?” Grant asked.
