Page 21 of Grant’s Flame

So fucking sad.

“You good, Tree?” Rio, who was still perched by my feet on the bed, tweaked my big toe, and I gave my head a little shake.

Begone, ghosts of shitty past!

“Yeah, sorry. For some reason, my head is all over the place right now,” I said softly.

“Maybe because you never just take time to unwind?” Rio proposed. “Think about it. When’s the last time you took a vacation? Even a long weekend and just did something other than Sebastian Shark’s bidding?”

“I don’t do his bidding,” I scoffed.

She let her head flop over to one side and gave me a look that screamed, “Bullshit.” And yeah, she was probably right, but I wasn’t about to admit that to her.

Instead, feeling defensive, I nearly spat, “My job involves a lot more than doing what Bas tells me to do. I have responsibilities completely independent of him.” With that, I swung my legs off the bed and searched for my clothes. I wasn’t typically uncomfortable being naked around her, but something about that comment had me feeling vulnerable and insecure. Two more feelings I wasn’t familiar with. Again, I asked myself, how was she doing this? What was it about Rio Gibson that brought out emotions I buried long, long ago? Feelings I had no interest in suffering through now, either.

My shorts and boxers were in a twisted heap beside the bed, and I had to take a moment to untangle the garments before I could put them back on. Frustrated, I jammed my legs in and yanked them into place, glaring at the floor while doing so.

“Hey…” she said quietly, and when I didn’t meet her gaze, she spoke my name in that lush, husky tone that made my pulse spike. “Grant.” She waited until I found her whiskey stare. “What’s going on? What did I say that pissed you off?”

“I’m not pissed,” I said, wincing at the petulance in my tone.

“Come on.” She paused, and I thought she’d drop it there. But no such luck. The woman continued pressing me instead. “Normally, you’re much more agreeable after sex. Something’s definitely got your pants in a bunch. Literally.” Her soft smile turned to a giggle as we both looked down to see I had yanked my shorts on backward.

With a heavy sigh, I sank back onto the bed beside her to fix my clothes. “It wasn’t you. Sorry, Blaze. Just got caught up in some shitty memories. I shouldn’t be letting old news get to me.” Once I straightened my bottoms, I couldn’t help but touch her again. I scooped her hand up and laced my fingers through hers. “I have a deal to propose. But hear me out before you shoot it down.”

“Oh, Christ, not one of your deals,” she complained, trying to pull her hand away.

Her protesting gesture just made me grip on tighter. “This one’s all for your benefit, trust me.”

She was the one to sigh in resignation this time. “Let’s hear it, and I’ll judge for myself.”

“I think that until we pull into port in Hawaii, there should be nothing but rest and relaxation for you. All day, every day.”

“That’s not too hard to agree to, Mr. Twombley. What’s the catch?”

“Why do you think there’s a catch?”

“There’s always a catch, Grant. I wasn’t born yesterday. A deal, by its very nature, implies that both parties stand to gain or lose something valuable.”

“Seriously, there’s no catch. These are the reasons I set up this escape plan in the first place. You need time to relax and unwind. Get your head settled. Too much has been going on around you, and I don’t think you’ve stopped long enough to process any of it properly.”

She continued to eye me skeptically. “Who gets to determine what properly looks like in my life, other than me?”

“You’re right. No one does but you.” I grew very still because I knew uttering the next sentence had the potential to be like pulling the pin in a live grenade in this small cabin, all while the door was barricaded closed from the outside. “So when are you going to stop making excuses and do it? You need to work through what happened without all the normal distractions of life to take you off the objective.” I turned to face her directly and continued. “Let me be an ear to listen. A shoulder to lean on, or even arms to hold you, while you heal. Let me be here for you, baby.”

“I don’t need a shoulder to lean on. Thank you though. Or to be held, or to cry it out, or any other happy therapy bullshit you found on Google. I’m fine, Grant. Honestly.” She yanked her hand from mine and stood up.

“Can we talk about the day I found you on the floor of your room at Clear Horizons?”

She whirled on me and said flatly, “Pass.”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Wh—”

With a level tone, I cut her off. “You’re in denial. How are you going to get better if you don’t deal with your problems, Rio?”

“Better? You think I need to get better?” Her voice rose in volume with every word she spoke. “Getting better”—she paused, long enough to shift her weight from one hip to the other—“implies something is wrong in the first place.” The same brandy-colored eyes that could entice me now widened with the heat of her temper. “Is that what you think of me, Grant? That I’m some lost, sick, sad soul that needs your healing touch? Christ, you sound so elitist right now. Do you hear yourself?”