I almost want to laugh, comparing this Grant to the one I first met, but my throat has gone unexpectedly tight with emotion.
“I know that sounds crazy,” he adds. “But even when everything else is a nightmare, I feel better when I’m with you. You make me want to say yes to whatever the plot throws our way. Running from murderers, rappelling down skyscrapers, jumping out of planes … bring it on.”
Grant’s worry lines have deepened at the mere mention of those hypothetical adventures, but this is still the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. Actually, all the more for it. Andromanticdoesn’t seem like the right word. That depth of care, the willingness to meet his fears head-on if it means more time together … That’s something else. Something more.
And I feel the same way. I don’t really care what the story is, as long as it’s ours. Even if the plot ismynightmare—a dull investigation of white-collar crime or an undercover mission in a sleepy retirement home. Drop us into an Amish cozy mystery, for all I care. If Grant’s there, I’m in.
I could tell him all of that. I could tell him that I’d say yes, too, even if it meant getting hurt later. Really hurt. Worse than ever before. For more time with him, I’d say yes.
But I can’t quite bring the words to leave my mouth. Instead, I raise my eyebrows at him and say, “I make you want to jump out of a plane?Wow.I hope you meant with a parachute, at least.”
“Youaremy parachute,” he says, with a sincerity that makes my stomach go all fuzzy, even if my brain doesn’t get it yet. “You’re the reason I can jump. Everything this book has thrown at us—I’d never be able to do it without you. Somehow you don’t make it any less terrifying, but you make me feel like I can handle it. You make me feel capable of doing things I should not, according to the laws of physics and sanity, be able to do.”
My heart is fluttering in a way I’m not sure hearts are supposed to and my voice is barely capable of a whisper, but still I say, “So I’m also like crystal meth, in that way.”
“Shh.”He lays a finger on my lips. “I’m glad it’s you, in this book with me. That’s all I’m trying to say.”
My chest constricts almost to the point of pain. It means so much, even though I think he has this backward. He’s the one who’s always leaping first, saying exactly what he thinks and feels with total openness. I wish I could be like that.
But maybe I can.
Maybe he can bemyparachute.
“I’m glad it’s you, too,” I say.
And then there’s nothing left to say that can’t be said by his arms around me, my head on his chest, and the synchrony of our breathing. Just silence, comfortable and shared.
The next thing I know, it’s somewhere near dawn and we’re being awakened by an urgent rapping on my door. Lesley’s and Lissa’s muffled voices float in from the hallway, bringing me back to reality. Or fiction, as the case may be.
“Yoo-hoo,” croons Lesley. “Lissy Elliott and Banksy in the house!”
I clap a hand over Grant’s mouth before he can say a damn thing. Lissa chimes in with a more frenetic and to-the-point “Get up! Get up! Get up!”
I rocket out of bed to throw on whichever clothes sayI have had zero sex this evening, what are you talking about.Grant bolts up, his eyes darting around the room in search of places to hide before he settles for ducking under the comforter. After pulling on sweatpants and a T-shirt, I quickly fluff up the bedding to make Grant’s hiding place a little less obvious, then open the door a crack.
Lesley’s as cool and collected as ever, but there’s a new brightness in his eyes. Lissa, on the other hand, is shimmying with either excitement or an awful wedgie.
“Ah. Good of you to answer the door, if not your phone,” says Lesley. “Just popping by to say—”
“HE TALKED!” shrieks Lissa. “Well, sort of. But we got him! And he’s going to spill the beans, I can feel it!”
I blink back at them, trying to clear the whiplash of crashing back into this storyline. I’d almost forgotten we had objectives beyond just getting each other’s clothes off last night.
Lesley frowns at me, assessing. “Oh, dear,” he says. “You’ve taken a thumping.”
I rear back. “Excuse me?”
He points at my face. “Your cheek.”
“My cheek …” My hand flies up to the spot I’d forgotten all about. “Right. Yes. Thumped. I’m fine.”
Lesley nods once. “Good.”
I clear my throat, redirecting myself to the business of the eager crime solvers outside my door. “Where’s Alistair?”
“Fake House,” says Lissa, with a flippant wave of the hand. “All locked up and ready to blab. We’ll tell you everything. Can we come in?”
My breath catches as I scramble for a solid excuse, but Lesley claps a hand on her shoulder. “This is a conversation for the study,” he says. “Meet us there in … I don’t know, five, ten minutes?” He peers at me over his glasses before turning away.
