Page 63 of Grant’s Heat

“I’m glad we did this,” he said, looking at me while we walked. “I hate seeing you panicked like that.”

“It’s literally the worst feeling.”

“Have you always been claustrophobic?” he asked, tentatively grasping my hand to hold while we walked.

“I don’t know if I’m actually claustrophobic, you know?”

He was giving me the most skeptical look when I finally met his gaze.

“I’m serious. I can ride in an elevator just fine. I’ve had an MRI and did just fine. I think it’s more of a panic attack than anything else. The way you were holding my hands and looking at me, it took me right back to the moment you told me about—” I couldn’t finish the sentence, but I didn’t have to. He knew what I meant.

“Told you about what?” he pressed.

Now I was the one looking at him like he was the village idiot.

“I want you to say it out loud. Don’t think it’s escaped my notice, Blaze. You won’t say his name. You won’t say that he’s dead!” Grant threw his hands up in frustration. His loud voice caused a dog to bark somewhere in the distance. “Hell, I’m not sure you sleep in your own damn bed when I’m not there with you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I scoffed.

“Is it? Why is there always a bed pillow and blankets stuffed behind the sofa?”

I snapped my stare in his direction. How did he even see those? Fucking Tree and that height advantage. Had to be.

Grant’s shoulders dropped a few inches as he tried to relax his temperament. “It will be good for you, baby. Just take one little step at a time.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said quietly, but there was no mistaking the amount of acid in my tone.

“Okay.” He sighed heavily and yanked at his nape. “But that’s sort of what we need to talk about. So I hope like hell you can deal with what I’m about to tell you. Because if you don’t hear it from me, you’re going to hear it from the cops. And fuck…” He looked up at the nighttime sky as if the answers he needed would be spelled out in glittering stars and moon dust. “Then Sebastian will somehow twist the shit into his own version of the facts, I’m sure.”

“Just say what you need to say, Grant. Stop coddling me. I’m a big girl. I can handle the shit life throws at me.”

He looked at me with one blond brow hiked almost to his hairline. “I think we both know that’s debatable.”

“You can be such an asshole sometimes.”

He waited before saying anything else. The only sound filling the night air was our sneakers hitting the concrete sidewalk in unison.

After a few minutes, I finally broke the silence. “So the reports came back on the equipment maintenance? The reports I requested at the police station when they presented their other findings?” I looked over to Grant because he was unusually quiet. “Is that what this is about?”

He shoved his hand back through his floppy blond hair. It was longer than he usually wore it, and I kind of like it. “Yeah,” he muttered.

“Well?” I stopped walking, and he had to double back to where I stood in the middle of the walkway. No one else was out for a stroll this late at night, so we had the path to ourselves. “What did they come up with? It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

Again, his shoulders dropped in resignation, and it was all the confirmation I needed. None of the information came as a surprise, though. From the moment I allowed that seed to germinate in my mind, the roots had taken hold. Every new leaf that sprouted along the strangling vine of my husband’s accident just became more of the foliage that adorned my topiary of hatred for Sebastian Shark.

“No, there was definitely foul play. It looks like the hydraulic lines on the forks were tampered with. They collected some fingerprints that aren’t consistent with the mechanic’s or the operator’s, but because of the number of people on the job site and the number of people in and out of the equipment rental yard, it will be tough to nail down when and where the tampering happened.”

“Right.” I nodded along while Grant spoke. “Tough,” I repeated.

“Whoever pulled this stunt did their homework. I’ve got to say, of all the shit we’ve dealt with recently, this one was executed in the smartest way.”

My mouth hung open in disbelief while I tried to formulate a retort. “Are you actually giving props to the person who assisted in my husband’s accident right now?”

“No. No. I’m sorry.” He rushed toward me. “I’m sorry, baby.” Then he went to wrap his arms around me—the same arms that only an hour ago, I wanted to spend the night in—but I smacked at his outstretched offer. “I’m so sorry,” my friend repeated. “That was such an insensitive way to say that. And my timing was the worst. Please forgive me. You’re right, I’m a total asshole.”

On the path up ahead, I could see a park bench. Sitting down seemed like a great idea suddenly. I was about to camp out right there on the pavement when the seat caught my eye, so I beelined for it.

“Blaze? Where are you go—?” Grant interrupted himself and just followed me instead, tracking my line of sight to the bench. When he stood in front of where I plopped down, he cautiously asked, “Do you mind if I join you? If you need time…or space…or whatever.”