Page 60 of Grant’s Heat

Thinking quickly to cover my mini-fit of frustration with Grant, I said with an exaggerated huff, “These vendors are driving me insane. Why doesn’t anyone just do their job?”

“Can I help with anything?” Dori asked, heading toward me with her superhero cape flapping behind her. So I imagined the cape, but at least the image made me chuckle. But when the chuckle turned into a full-blown fit of laughter, releasing the stress from the past couple of days, everyone really began to stare.

I held up a hand, trying to get a coherent word in between gasping for air and cackling. “Sorry.”

Then, just when I thought I’d settled down enough to explain, I’d picture the woman in additional superhero garb, maybe a black eye mask or hair popped high in a female version of a pompadour, and I would burst into another round of raucous laughter.

Lack of good-quality sleep—hell, any sleep at this point—torturous eating habits, and stress levels that could be measured with a Geiger counter instead of a blood pressure cuff were starting to wear me down. I would never admit it to anyone, not even Grant, but I was also starting to have periods during my day that were completely unaccounted for.

The GPS app on my phone had been getting a hefty workout since Grant Twombley took a more front-and-center role in my life. Why couldn’t the man just stay in one place for more than a few nights at a time? And people thought I had head problems…

A quick scan of the route I could take from where I’d be downtown and his home in Brentwood gave me one distance. Then I measured the course again with a stop back here at the Inglewood kitchen to pick up Kendall. By making that one extra stop after the deliveries, I would avoid a million prying questions in the morning. Luckily, the app gave me the answer I was hoping for. It wouldn’t be that inconvenient to stop back by Abstract Catering to pick up my personal vehicle to make my drive to the west side after work.

If that was what I decided to do, at least. The jury was still deliberating whether I’d go to his place or not, and I didn’t expect a decision until the very last minute.

Once the van was loaded with the lunch orders, I set off for the downtown route. It was always such a welcome relief to get out of the kitchen. Even though much of the administrative work had to be handled by Abbi or me, as the owners, I missed the good old days when the business was simpler.

Once the Edge opened its doors, our business model would change completely. We were putting those organizational meetings off until Abbi delivered the baby, though. She couldn’t concentrate on much more than her overly swollen body parts at the moment, and I couldn’t focus on more than my disdain for her husband. Nothing productive would get done by either of us.

A few hours out on my own, and my mood improved significantly. The fresh air helped me think more clearly, and being out among our clients helped me keep focused and level-headed. My thoughts usually only drifted when I was alone for extended periods, and I had a feeling Grant knew that. Maybe that was part of the reason he was so attentive. He really had been an amazing bolster since the accident, and I needed to remember to be patient with him and show a little more gratitude.

The mid-spring evening air was still cool by the time I locked up in Inglewood and switched cars to make the drive west to Brentwood. I had firmed up my decision to go see my friend after the last lunch order was set in front of the client, and I considered sending Grant a text to let him know but then thought it would be more fun to make him wonder if I was going to show up until the exact moment he opened his door and found me standing on the other side.

I didn’t regret sleeping with him, necessarily, because…my God, it was an earth-moving experience in its own right…but I knew we couldn’t go on with that sort of behavior. The more time I had away from his intoxicating presence, the more sure I became of the fact. The problem arose when I was near him. He had a magnetic pull on me when we were near each other. So I spent the entire drive from Inglewood to Brentwood mentally shoring up my walls against my need to feel the muscled planes that made up my favorite tree, Grant Twombley.

I let my eyes slide shut while I sat at a surface street red light near his place. I could already anticipate the seductive smell that usually knocked me on my ass when I walked into one of his homes. That damn delicious, sexy sandalwood and cedar mixed with mint and citrus. Fuck Chanel and all their creative olfactory glory.

Maybe it had nothing to do with Chanel at all. Maybe…it was just Grant that had this effect on me.

No, no, no. Wasn’t going back down that road. Seriously. How was I already changing my tune just by getting within five miles of the bastard? I knew pheromones were a thing, but could they really be this potent? Nah. No way. This was just a plain and simple case of sad and lonely me wanting to be ravished and adored by sexy, handsome, intelligent, and attentive him.

Nothing more.

I parked Kendall in the driveway of his two-story condo, grabbed my purse off the passenger seat, and went to the front door. A quick look at my phone showed the time at twelve minutes past eight. Well, tough shit, he’d have to deal with it. Traffic was a bitch in this town, and if he ever drove his own ass around, he’d know—

The front door whooshed open, and six and a half feet of man, wearing a body-hugging T-shirt over his very well-defined muscled body, filled the space.

Grant stood in the doorway with his hands over his head, gripping the wide, bright-white molding that framed the opening. His dark denim jeans hung low on his hips, shamelessly advertising the cut vee of muscle that led the eye right to his crotch.

My throat was so parched when I went to speak a greeting, no sound came out.

The side of his mouth kicked up in a lazy, smug grin before he said, “You’re late. I distinctly remember saying not to be late.”

Grant stretched one long arm out and hooked four fingers into my thick, studded, black leather belt and pulled me toward him. I all but stumbled into the foyer as he moved back from the doorframe and shut the panel behind me with a solid clap. The sound made me jump, and the motion of the door made my short hair flip up in the back.

The entire interaction made me feel like a skittish, gun-shy colt rather than the self-assured mustang I had myself pumped up to be earlier in my car. The effect this man had on me, and over me, was downright unsettling.

He moved closer, trapping me against the door with his massive body. Grant wasn’t a mountain of thick muscles like some men, but with more than a foot of height advantage over me and so much lean muscle definition…well…massive seemed to be a suitable description.

“Well,” I said. “Here I am. What did you want to see me about?” A snippy attitude was my best defense in this arousing situation.

“Where’s your bag? You’re not driving home tonight.” He stroked a few stray pieces of hair across my forehead with sure fingers, lingering way too long where we touched. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure I have stuff here you can borrow.”

“You keep women’s clothing on hand?” I just shook my head. “You’re a player’s player, Grant Twombley. The king of players, really.” I ducked off to the side to get away from him. The heat that was already building in my core would betray me if I didn’t. I propped a hip on the arm of a surprisingly old sofa and waited for him to answer my question.

Instead, he stepped up to me, so close, his leading leg was between mine. “I meant you could wear something of mine if you had to, but I’m guessing you really have a bag in your car. You’re just playing some game here.”

“I don’t play games, Tree. You should know that about me by now.”