Page 57 of Not Home Alone

“He is certainly good at making it look that way sometimes,” I mumble.

“Excuse me, Miss Tucker. You’re walking like you have an invisible horse between your legs. He was obviously literally into you very recently. Like, inside you⁠—”

“Yes, I get what you mean.” I lower my voice and say to her, “He may not be the friendliest guy I know, but no one has been nicer to my lady bits.”

Joy squeals and our former third grade teacher gives us the side-eye while selecting bananas. “Happy holidays, Mrs. Broadhurst!” Joy calls out. Then she turns to me again and slinks her arm through mine, pulling me in close. “Girl. I didn’t want to say anything, because I know how hurt you were by what he did ten years ago. And I’m not saying what he did wasn’t crappy.”

“It was. But he’s making it up to me,” I say, by rote at this point.

“Good. I’m glad. And I’m honestly not surprised.”

“Why’s that?”

Joy leans in like she’s about to kiss my ear. “Okay, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but it’s been kind of driving me nuts that nobody outside of my office knows.”

“Knows what?”

“You know my boss is Grant’s attorney? His brother and sister, Todd and Ava, are also clients. Todd quote unquote runs the ski resort and Ava quote unquote runs The Moody Estate Vineyard and Winery, but they have no idea how to run a business. And they honestly don’t seem to care if they run those businesses into the ground or not. But Grant’s been having Wyatt call him whenever Todd or Ava screw up. For years. He quietly fixes everything—contracts, potential safety or legal issues, any kind of problem. Takes care of everything for the resort and the vineyard behind the scenes. No one knows. He does it all remotely, in secret.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “I don’t really know. I think he’s just comfortable having the trust fund playboy image around here or something. But he’s saved The Moody Group hundreds of thousands in potential lawsuits. Potential crappy contracts with crappy contractors. You name it. He’s fixed it.” She pouts and says, so genuinely, “He’s a good guy, Merrily. I don’t know why it’s so hard for him to show it.”

This revelation lands more quietly than it could have. On some level, I’m not all that surprised at this point. Grant Moody isn’t irresponsible—he’s the most competent, ethical person in his family now. I get it. I look over at him, picking out organic green apples. Which is what I was supposed to be doing, but he’s doing it for me. He catches me staring and holds up a Granny Smith for my approval. I give him the thumbs up, and he places it in a paper bag.

That jerk.

What sort of game is he playing?

NINETEEN

GRANT

It is just like her to make this even harder for me.

She actually brought her favorite apron with her from Ann Arbor because she was looking forward to baking in this house by herself. Now I get to see her looking all cute, with no makeup on, her thick blonde hair up in a loose ponytail, while she bakes us an apple pie. Wearing yet another little cropped tank top, this one’s green with Santa faces all over it, and plaid pajama pants that she changed into when we got back from the grocery store. With this little red apron on over all of it. Barefoot in the kitchen. With bright red toenails. Dancing around to Sabrina Carpenter Christmas songs, slicing and dicing and mixing and boiling and stirring. While I sit here at the island counter, eating bacon and not having sex with her.

I was not planning on telling her the sex should never happen again. I was, in fact, planning to tell her that the sex should happen a lot. Frequently, and for as long as possible. That’s why I spilled the beans. The coffee beans. Or grounds. Whatever. I was shocked by how much I wanted to tell her that this morning. Not shocked by how much I wanted to have sex with her again, but shocked that I was planning to propose this to her. As an addendum. Because it’s just sex. Sex, I can do. Uncomplicated sex is the one thing I know I can do without fucking things up or making things complicated. Even with Merrily. How did I not realize that earlier?

I was in the kitchen, planning to bring her breakfast in bed, but there was nothing to make breakfast with. And then she said it would never happen again. The board has voted on it. Motion passed. No more sex for Grant and Merrily.

“What was that?” she says.

“Huh?”

“I thought I heard you grunt just now.”

I shake my head and shrug.

“Might have been more of a groan, actually,” she says, smirking.

Why is she smirking at me? Smirking isn’t a let’s never have sex again thing. Smirking while barefoot baking in a cropped tank top means I’m thinking about what you did to me last night, and maybe I was wrong about the not having sex thing. She whisks whatever it is she’s melting in that saucepan on the stove, turns off the burner, and removes the pan from the heat when a timer goes off.

“That smells good,” I tell her. It does smell good, but that’s not why I was moaning. See? When you throw in something that’s true, it makes the lie more believable.

“I know,” she says. “I feel like I’m cheating because I bought a premade crust, but this is the best apple pie recipe ever. The secret is in the sauce. My mom and I perfected it when I’d stay at her house. Back when she lived here.”

“Where is your mom now?”