Page 105 of The KING Review

Grant studies them. “You’ve managed to raise two of the most extraordinary women I’ve ever met, and instead of celebrating them, you seem committed to misunderstanding them both.”

The air in the bar goes radioactive. You could sear the paint off the walls with it.

My parents are momentarily speechless. It’s like watching two luxury sedans simultaneously swerve off the road and detonate into a barrel of gasoline. I know those expressions. They’re the ones they wore at every parent-teacher conference, every honors ceremony where Fia got top billing, and I got a “most improved” nod and a sticky note about “behavioral exuberance.” For a split second, I almost feel bad for them.

Grant leans in, slow, and doesn’t break eye contact. “I’m not sure how you did it, honestly. It’s like discovering two perfect diamonds at the center of a landfill. You did something right, even if you have no idea what it was.”

The silence is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.

God, he’s perfect. The only sound is the whispery zing of Fia’s breath as it soughs out of her, half shock, half delighted horror. I jerk my head over, catch her eyes, and it’s like we’re both kids again, hiding under the dining table, eavesdropping on adult drama and praying not to sneeze. I feel the laughter detonate in my chest, sharp helium, but I bite down hard enough to leave marks in my tongue. Don’t blow your cover. Don’t laugh. Not yet.

Mom’s mouth opens, then shuts. Dad’s eyebrows shoot so high I’m worried they’ll lodge permanently in his receding hairline. There’s a full beat where I think they might actually faint.

And then Mom pivots on her heel with the kind of precision that would make the Navy Seals jealous. Dad follows, spine ramrod straight, and they stalk back toward the door with such desperate dignity that I almost want to send the footage to some kind of etiquette committee for review—the fine art of being told off by Grant King and surviving to limp away.

My pulse is a meteor shower. This is not how I thought tonight would go. It’s better. It’s so much better than anything I could have planned.

Grant turns, and—the second he spots me and Fia—the mask just shatters. His eyes go wide, and he starts to speak, apology written all over his features, but I cut him off with my mouth. I get my hands in his hair, haul his head down, and kiss him. Not polite. Not restrained. Just a full-on, soul-scorching, “I can’t believe you just did that for me” kind of kiss. I taste gin and adrenaline and the oxygen rush of being seen.

When I pull back, my lips find his ear. “Thank you, baby.”

Fia sidles in, a silent shadow at my shoulder. She’s so close I feel the heat of her, the wild snap of her gaze as it bounces between Grant and my parents’ retreating backs. Her hand comes down on Grant’s forearm, gentle but deliberate. “Thank you, Grant.” Her voice is low, but not weak. There’s steel in it.

He tilts his head, the smile he gives her slow and soft—a smile between friends, nothing like the one he uses on the rest of the world. “I didn’t say a single thing that wasn’t true.”

I didn’t think it was possible to fall harder for this man than I already was, but here we are.

I lean in, nudging his hip with mine. “Take me home?”

Grant’s eyes go dark and hungry. “Fuck yes, angel.”

Fia snorts, shaking her head, then flashes a rare smile before turning to return to Cade. I think she’s proud of us.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Valuable Ammunition

Neve

The sky is barely awake, just a watercolor wash over the street, and I’m camped in Grant’s kitchen, fully aware we’re about to begin the next two weeks of low-contact time because Grant will have Sera with him. I don’t resent him for it, and I don’t resent her. I’m just ready to move forward so that I can be a part of his life all the time—part of her life, too—not just a secret shadow at the edges.

But I know I have to let him go at his own pace. I know he needs to feel safe in all of this. So, I resolve to make the most of being here for the next few hours, then I’ll leave, and I’ll miss him for the next two weeks, living on only texts, voice notes, and glances of him at the university.

I’m wearing his biggest sweater, sleeves past my hands, hair sleep mussed as I drink my coffee. He’s in the shower, so I’m waiting to make pancakes until he’s out. I’ve never been the type of person to assume the worst, so when there’s a knock at the door, I don’t even think about opening it until it’s too late to close it again.

There she is—Marie, airbrushed and perfect, hair sleek, lips glossed like glass. She’s holding Sera’s hand, but her eyes are all over me, scanning, dissecting, slotting me into whatever folder she has for “problems that shouldn’t exist but do.” Sera is beaming, sipping on her dino juice box, completely oblivious to the emotional bloodbath about to commence.

“Oh,” Marie says, all faux surprise. “I didn’t realize Grant had company.”

I flash a smile, trying not to make it sharp. “Hey. Hi, Sera. I love your shoes.”

Sera lifts her knee to show off her sparkly sneakers, delighted. “They light up when I stomp!” She does just that, the sound echoing in the hall like a gunshot.

Marie doesn’t blink when I turn my attention back to her. “Grant said you were meeting later for him to pick up Sera.”

She sniffs, averting her eyes when she realizes she’s been caught. “We had an appointment in the area. I assumed it wouldn’t be a problem.”

You assumed. Of course, you did.