Page 85 of The False Flat

His exhale was long and rough, but he nodded. “Let’s go.”

When we pulled into my driveway twenty-five minutes later, I pushed my palms into my eye sockets. “I don’t know why this is affecting me so much. It’s just that things finally feel like they’re coming together, and then he shows up.”

Grant’s hand spiraled around my back. “That’s the way life is. Bittersweet. The bad always comes with the good.”

I raised to meet his eyes. “I don’t like that.”

“I don’t either.”

We were silent for several seconds until he turned toward the windshield and put his hands on the steering wheel, his knuckles blanching. “I didn’t like how jealous he was when we first met; then, when you told me how he proposed to you, I was furious. But I’m glad he was gone before I got out there because my instant reaction was to confront him, and I didn’t have nice things running through my head.” Grant turned toward me. “But he cared about you, in his own broken way, and he’s trying to fix his mistake. He can’t fix it. I won’t let him, but I understand it. It’s what I’d do. If I’d done something to hurt you—and I’m going to try like hell not to—I’d work to get you back.”

My head fell against the headrest, unsure what to do with the compliment. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.” An electric current ran through my muscles, giving me a jittery, unsettled feeling that I didn’t want to face in the silence of my house, especially since Erin wouldn’t be there.

Without asking me where I wanted to go, he backed out of my driveway.

CHAPTER 31

TWO SECONDS OF JASON STATHAM

After we’d spent a couple of hours talking—likely Grant’s effort to calm me down—I tossed and turned all night, my mind moving from the marketing event, to Grant, to Chad, each subject fracturing in my mind like shoots on a tree branch as old feelings wanted to resurface.

When I woke up the next morning in Grant’s guest room, it was late, and the day felt sticky with cobwebs from the night before. There was a tap on my door, then Grant asking me if I was ready for lunch.

“Thanks for letting me sleep in,” I said after freshening myself and joining him in the kitchen, wearing the T-shirt he’d given me to sleep in and my dress pants from the night before.

“You needed it.” He placed a sandwich in front of me, some sort of sprouts peeking out from under grainy bread. “Should we cancel game night with D and W?”

“I’d nearly forgotten,” I said, picking up the sandwich. I wanted to scrape the sprouts off but didn’t want to hurt his feelings—he’d sweetly made me lunch. “I’m still game if you are. And where’s your sandwich?” I took a bite of mine. The sprouts tasted like hay, but the turkey and avocado mostly covered it up.

“I snacked a little while making yours and decided I wasn’t all that hungry.”

It was probably the sprouts.

Despite being freshly showered, he looked a bit like I felt. He bent backward, hands on his lower back.

“Are you still hurting?” I asked.

“A little bit.”

“I have an idea. Why don’t we snuggle up on the couch with popcorn and watch a movie before William and Deanna arrive?”

“I like that idea.”

“I should have some spare clothes in my work satchel, which I think is still in your car. I’ll go get it and change.”

I indeed had spare clothes—a tunic top and leggings—but I liked being in Grant’s shirt, so when I came out, I explained that I’d “only” found pants; then I forgot about my little fib entirely when I saw that he was wearing a button-down and slacks.

“It’s game night, not the opera, Grant. Are you seriously going to wear that for us to cuddle on the couch?”

He looked down at his clothes like he couldn’t fathom why I’d suggested such a thing.

“You do own sweats, don’t you?”

“That’s the black-and-white number with the tails, right?”

I opened my mouth, but he stopped me. “All right, all right. My old-man wear it is.”

Minutes later, he walked into his living room in a white T-shirt and gray tapered jogging pants.