Page 27 of Grant’s Heat

And he truly was. After that, he’d become so much more. He’d turned into my favorite caveman, throwing me over his shoulder and hauling me off to our bedroom. We’d spent the rest of the night practicing—as he’d taken to calling it—for when the drugs were entirely on board and we would need to be fucking like rabbits. I’d assured him I didn’t foresee a problem, that his skills were in peak form, but he insisted that a job worth doing was a job worth doing right, and who was I to argue?

I continued milling around the Inglewood prep kitchen, getting as many of the day’s chores done as possible. Abbi and I had agreed to hire a cleaning company to do the quarterly deep cleaning, but I knew we could save some money if I pitched in. Plus, I found scrubbing and mopping therapeutic.

With some music blasting in the background, I set to work on the stovetop. The work surface was the spot that took the biggest beating every day. If this appliance could talk, it would tell quite a story. It had seen our little business grow over the past several years into the thriving partnership it was today. Those burners knew all the arguments we’d had and heard all the silly stories we’d laughed about. It had listened to all the quiet secrets we’d whispered when we were alone here in the early morning hours.

My phone, vibrating on the stainless-steel worktop, shook me from my musings. I jumped a little but smiled when I saw Grant’s name on the display. It had been days since I’d heard from him, and I’d vowed not to be the one to message first. I needed to prove to myself I could go without contacting him. But I couldn’t deny how happy I was to see his text message.

I’d been missing my friend. It was really just that simple.

Hey. Where are you? The kitchen?

Yep. Why? What’s up?

Stay there. I’m on my way. We need to talk.

Uhhh…OK…you good?

Be there in ten or less.

The messages were odd and cryptic, even for Grant Twombley. No—especially for Grant Twombley. Normally, his straight-shooter mien was one of his best features.

I dumped the dirty water from the mop bucket, rinsed out the sink, and put the cleaning supplies away to stay busy while I waited for Grant to arrive. I scooted into the small bathroom and finger-combed the hair that peeked out from the bandana I had tied around most of my head, “Rosie the Riveter” style. A quick whiff of my pits confirmed my deodorant was still holding up after all the manual labor.

It was just a few minutes later when I heard the handle on the side door jiggle. I realized it was still locked from when Hannah had ensured I was safely inside when she departed. I rushed over. “Who is it?”

Grant’s distinctive baritone vibrated through the barrier. “It’s me, Blaze. Open up.”

Was that a cracking croak that actually entered his voice?

But I didn’t waste time to process that analysis.

“Whoa…hey,” I said quietly as he stepped inside, walking past me a few feet before he turned back to look at me. His healthy glowing smile was gone. In its place, his ghost-white and tear-streaked cheeks and jaw ticked with anxiety.

“Grant?” I choked with concern. “What’s wrong?”

I would bet my entire paycheck, and my husband’s too, that I had never seen the man look so somber in the whole time I’d known him.

“Rio. Let’s sit down for a minute. We need to talk.”

I followed him like a puppy, panic chilling my blood. “You’re freaking me out,” I said, quickening my steps to keep up with his long stride. “Grant.” I repeated his name again, but he was on a mission. He was going to sit down, and I was going to join him apparently.

“What’s going on?” My voice pitched higher at the end of the question.

“Sit down, Blaze.” He pulled out the chair at my desk and waited for me to sit before he took the chair by Abbi’s. He rolled right up to mine, nearly knocking his knees into mine. When he reached for my hands, I willingly…trustingly…placed mine in his.

Grant wrapped his long, warm fingers around my entire hands. He was so much bigger than I was, and I realized he had never touched me this way. Never just freely taken the liberty to show me open affection.

“Tell me what’s going on. Please,” I begged, finally pulling my stare from our joined hands to his face and then almost wishing I hadn’t. The emotion I saw there was so raw, so agonized, I knew that whatever he was about to say was going to hurt us both deeply. So deeply, we would forever be changed. Elementally scarred and damaged. Possibly never be whole again.

“Fuck.” He let his chin drop to his chest and rested there for a moment. Finally, when he lifted his face again, a tear ran from the corner of his eye and tracked down his cheek. “Fuck, this is harder than I ever imagined,” he rasped and then wiped the drop away with the back of his fist.

“Do you not want to be my friend anymore? Is that what this is about?” It sprang out of me so naturally, welling from a lifetime of insecurity. I was battling my own tears then. They were threatening to break loose and tumble down my cheeks, but I had years of practice at holding them back. I was an expert at not showing weakness.

So, I gulped.

Once. Then again.

“Just tell me, Grant. Get it out. Get it over with.”