Page 51 of Grant’s Heat

And so damn good.

I’d spent a lot of time partaking in self-love since that morning, and while the new fantasy material was fantastic, nothing would ever compare to the real thing.

Grant Twombley had officially ruined me for all others. Probably for all time.

Between his persistent phone calls and text messages and Abbi’s side-eye looks and under-her-breath comments, my fake good nature was wearing thin. Someone was going to have a verbal dressing down or the knuckle sandwich lunch special if they didn’t watch themselves. When did my business become everyone else’s business?

“Hey, what’s all that stuff in your car?” Abbi asked nonchalantly while we were cleaning up after making lunches. Hannah had set off with the deliveries, and we were the only two left in the kitchen. Dori was running an errand for her boss lady and was expected back in a few minutes.

“Huh?” I replied. I knew exactly what she was referring to but thought if she had to explain her beyond-nosy question, she might hear how invasive she was with the inquiry and back off. Moments like this, it made sense why a lot of people felt that working with your family members was just too much time spent with the same people. It gave your relatives a sense of comfort that wouldn’t typically be felt among regular coworkers.

She shrugged, maybe finally feeling a bit self-conscious for prying. “Oh.” But she forged ahead anyway, dashing my hope of her discovering some clarity. “When we pulled in earlier, Dori parked beside your car. Since my truck sits up so much higher, I could see directly into your windows and that giant sunroof you have. It looked like you have a bunch of trash bags in your car. I was just wondering what all that stuff is.”

My sister-in-law wasn’t going to like this conversation. I also assumed now wouldn’t be the best time to point out that maybe she should mind her own damn business. “I’ve been packing up Sean’s stuff. Those bags are for Goodwill.”

“Oh,” she repeated.

We were both quiet, working at various jobs around the kitchen, but I could feel the air growing more and more tense with every minute that passed. I was putting dishes away when she started in on me again.

“Rio, did you think maybe Bram, Flynn, Zander, or I would like to go through Sean’s things to see if we wanted any of it?”

I let out a heavy sigh because I’d had a feeling we would end up here. From the moment she brought up the bags in my car—no, from the moment I decided it was time to start packing the stuff up at the house—I knew I’d be judged for it. Maybe I really had made a mistake here. Perhaps I didn’t. I had nothing to go on. But ultimately, wasn’t that my call to make?

“Abbigail, listen. I’m trying to do everything right. Or at least by the impossibly perfect Gibson family standards. But I’ve never dealt with this sort of thing before, and I’m doing the best I can. Does that make sense?”

I waited for her to answer, but she just stared at me.

Judging.

Judging and staring.

“Sean’s will was very specific. That was something he did after you lost your mother. He explained it to me. I thought you were all satisfied without additionally picking through his belongings. If you want to go through his old underwear, then have at it. I’ll hold on to the stuff for a few more weeks, and you can come over when it’s convenient for you. Just let me know when you can fit that into your schedule. Okay?”

I knew I had just gone overboard with my comments, but her judgmental tone and disapproving glare had sent me over the edge.

“You don’t have to get so nasty about this. I don’t think I’m asking that much. He was my big brother.”

In typical Abbigail fashion, she started up with the waterworks. At once, I wanted to turn on my heel and walk away. I’d already had all I could take. Add in the crocodile tears, and I couldn’t endure another second of the conversation.

But no…she continued in an even more accusatory tone. “It hasn’t been three months since he’s gone. I just don’t understand why you’re in such a big hurry to pack it all up and get rid of his memory?”

My mouth hung open while I tried to form my outraged thoughts into a coherent sentence. “I’m not getting rid of his memory. How dare you say something like that to me? You have no idea what I’m going through, Abbigail. So don’t stand there and judge me.” I started to walk away from her just to get some physical distance between us but whirled back after only a few steps. Clutching at my chest, I said, “My memories are in here, in my heart, not in a bag full of old clothes.” I shook my head. Why did I have to stand there and defend myself and my actions? It was so unfair. There wasn’t a manual on grieving. There wasn’t a right way and a wrong way to do this sort of thing.

In an angry huff, I grabbed my purse and jacket from the hook on the wall and turned on Abbi one last time. “See, Abbi, looking at his stuff—day in and day out—is painful. But you wouldn’t understand that.” I shook my head as one hot, fat tear finally escaped and trailed down my cheek. “Because your man is still alive.”

When I went out the door, I slammed the thing so hard, it bounced off the frame and flew back open. I didn’t bother going back to close it.

By the time Grant called, I was speeding home and desperately fighting the urge to burn something. The dry hillsides that lined the freeway taunted me as I picked up the call and tried to sound cool. “Hey” was all I could choke out because I was still seething from Abbigail’s bullshit and battling so many internal demons.

“You okay?” he answered. His calming voice filled the small cabin of Kendall and felt like soaking in a Jacuzzi. Comforting and warm, relaxing and exhilarating, all at the same time. How could he do that with one question?

I let out a heavy sigh before answering. “Yeah, fine. I got into it with Abbigail at the kitchen before I left. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offered, his tone rich with tender thoughtfulness. “Maybe it’s hormones?”

“No.” I let him hear my eye roll. Sometimes I thought “hormones” had to be the conversational catch-all. It was easier than trying for substance. “I don’t think it’s something you’d want to get into anyway.”

“Well, if you change your mind, I’m here. I’d be happy to lend an ear.”