by Nina Lindsey
The question was…could she handle a week with him?
Just being close to him was an exercise in lust and self-control. She’d certainly noticed his good looks and sexiness over the past two years, but she’d never once imagined hooking up with him.
Okay, maybe she’d wondered every now and then, but she’d gotten so comfortable with their relationship as it was that some part of her didn’t dare shake up the status quo. She was accustomed to him being right over there, and if getting closer to him changed that in any way…
No. She’d needed Grant Taylor to be exactly who he was and where he was.
Except now that she was moving and he wouldn’t be right around the corner anymore—
A shiver ran down her spine. She’d better not let her thoughts go in that direction when she had other things to focus on. Like ensuring that his parents’ visit went without a single hitch.
After washing the plate, she wandered back into the living room. She desperately wanted to set up her computer so she could distract herself with work, but since she had no idea where Grant wanted her to put it, she’d have to wait until tomorrow.
He obviously had no evidence of a computer. Not even a laptop. He had a crap ton of books, though. Callie would like him. Gordon Prescott would have, too.
Tilting her head, she studied the spines of the books—everything from mystery novels to political biographies. One entire shelf held nothing but cookbooks. She opened one by Jacques Pepin and Julia Child, scanning the recipes of everything from whitefish in lemon-butter sauce to haricots verts.
As she settled on the sofa with the book, the back door opened. She turned, her belly tensing as Grant strode in, his hair messy and his wrinkled T-shirt clinging to his chest. The smoky scent of the grill still hovered around him, and lines of fatigue etched his face.
He set a tall, frosted metal cup and a paper straw on the coffee table. “I’m going to take a shower.”
Before she could respond, he disappeared into the bathroom. A second later, the shower started.
The cup contained a thick, chocolate milkshake. She stuck the straw into the ice cream and enjoyed a long slurp as she continued leafing through the book.
Half an hour later, Grant emerged from the bathroom—Rory attempted unsuccessfully to catch a glimpse of his towel-clad body as he went into the bedroom—and came out in track pants and the forest-green T-shirt that turned his eyes the color of emeralds.
As he pulled a hand through his wet hair, the shirt rode up, exposing the ladder-like ridges of his abdomen and a tempting trail of hair leading right down into his pants.
Rory’s breathing increased.
This was nuts. She had to get control of herself. Salivating over him all the time might help her prove to the Taylors that they were a serious item, but it would wreak havoc on her nerves.
She sucked down another gulp of milkshake. “Thanks for this. It’s delicious.”
He jutted his chin toward the book. “You going to take up cooking?”
“Ha ha. Did you know gravlax is basically just raw fish?”
“Cured raw fish.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“If it needed a cure, it must have been sick.” She smirked and closed her lips around the straw again.
“That’s the best you can do?” He leaned against the doorjamb and folded his arms.
“Well, it’s late.” She glanced around for her phone, mildly surprised to discover she’d lost track of it. “What time is it?”
“Twelve thirty.” He opened the linen closet. “Your phone is on the kitchen table. I need to work early in the morning, so we’ll get your stuff unpacked tomorrow afternoon.”
“Okay.” Setting the book aside, Rory pushed herself up and retrieved the phone. She started toward the door. “See you later.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to the cottage.” She frowned at his snappish tone. “Where are you going?”
“To bed.”
“Great.” She pulled open the door. “Sweet dreams.”
“Why aren’t you sleeping here?” He was starting to scowl, as if she were intentionally making things difficult for him.
“Your parents won’t be here until Wednesday.”
“So?”
“So we don’t have to pretend until then.”
“That doesn’t mean you need to sleep in the cottage. All your stuff is already here anyway.” He jabbed his thumb toward the bedroom. “Take the bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“Why would you do that when there’s a perfectly good bed in the cottage?” Rory scratched her chin, suddenly uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t feel right about sleeping in your bed…er, I mean the bed when you’re the one with the early shift.”
“Fine, then you take the sofa.”
And try to sleep knowing he was just in the other room? Yes, she’d have to get used to that very soon, but no need to prolong the stress. “I’ll be fine in the cottage.”
“Between now and Wednesday, we need to act like we’ve been living together for a while.”
“Do your parents even know we’re living together?”
“I told them the other day.” He dropped a pillow on the sofa. “As far as my mother was concerned, I might as well have said you and I were walking down the aisle next.”
“That’s where I draw the line.”
“I would hope so.” He tossed the blanket on the other end of the sofa. “But since we’ll need to do a lot more pretending to pull this off, we’ll start now. You need to, like, live here. Put girl stuff around. Lotions, hairbrushes, clothes, lipstick.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Because I’m a girl, I need to clutter up your place with lotions and lipstick?”
“No.” He groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “You need to establish a presence here. And not with bags of pork rinds and dirty T-shirts.”
“Wow. Way not to like me for who I am.” She injected a hurt note into her voice, then chuckled when he looked slightly horrified at having upset her. “Kidding. But really, even your parents will expect me to have a computer.”
“We’ll set it up tomorrow. I need to move stuff off the desk in the bedroom.” He flopped down on the sofa and put his feet on the coffee table. “So I know about your career, your terrible diet, and your family. What else do I need to know?”
“That’s it.”
He slanted her a glance. “I don’t believe that.”
She shrugged. “You know what I like to eat and drink, who my friends are, what kind of music I like. I work out and jog. I go to concerts when I can. I like hiking. That’s the main stuff.”
He studied her, his eyebrows drawing together. “Still not buying it. Everyone has secrets.”
“I didn’t say I don’t have secrets. I said that’s all you need to know about me to pretend like we’re together. Your parents will expect you to bring me a large coffee—no cream, two sugars—without me having to ask. They won’t expect you to tell them that I sing karaoke and dance around my apartment in my underwear when I’m stuck on a coding or design problem.”
Intrigue sparked in his eyes. “Do you?”
“Like I said…” She grabbed the milkshake cup and turned toward the foyer. “That’s all you need to know.”
She was halfway out the door when she heard him laugh.
Chapter 9
“Be sure to let us know if we need tickets to any of the festival events,” his mother chirped over the phone. “Can’t wait!”
“Looking forward to it, Mom,” Grant lied. He hung up the tavern’s landline phone and turned his attention back to the artichoke soup simmering on the stove.
Though his mother had orchestrated this whole visit in a masterful display of interference, Grant was not entirely convinced that she wouldn’t drag Edward to Bali just to prove a point—if she thought she wasn’t welcome in Bliss Cove.
Keeping her happily occupied was Gra
nt’s main goal. Nathan had practically prostrated himself with gratitude for his rescue from the Joanna Taylor juggernaut, and now he and Alice were ensconced in their honeymoon suite where—Grant was certain—his brother was having no issues with erectile dysfunction.
Also, Rory had considerably eased Grant’s concerns about his parents. Not only had she played her role to perfection at the wedding, he’d enjoyed her company. He’d enjoyed her, from her good-naturedness about letting his mother drag her along on a spa day to her care over extracting herself from the wedding pictures to her willingness to dance even though she had no idea how.
His instincts had been right about asking her instead of, say, Madeline Fox to pretend to be his girlfriend. Rory made the pretend part easy.
Maybe a little too easy.
After adding more salt to the soup, he returned to the dining room. A talkative lunch crowd filled the tavern, and the servers wove between the tables with trays of plates and drinks.
He was halfway to the bar when unease tugged at his gut. He scanned the room, his gaze skidding to a halt on a table by the window. Rory, dressed in a rose-colored blouse with her hair fastened into a tidy ponytail, sat perusing the menu.
Grant’s brain clicked into gear. She always looked good to him, no matter what she was wearing or how messy her hair was—in fact, he liked her disheveled look a lot—but today she’d clearly made an effort to look extra nice. She was even wearing earrings.
What was she doing at a table set for two? She always either sat alone at the bar or at a corner booth with her sisters and friends.
His unease deepened. He started toward her. The front door opened, bringing a rush of cool autumn air. Forcing himself to veer toward the entering customer, Grant turned.
“Hey, man.” Max Weatherford, the local veterinarian and Grant’s occasional fishing buddy, extended a hand. “Good to see you. I’m renting a boat this weekend, if you want to head out to catch some salmon.”
“Maybe. Thanks for the offer.” Grant grabbed a menu from the hosting station. “Table for one?”
“No, actually, I’m meeting a woman for lunch.” He tilted his chin toward the bank of tables beside the windows. “According to Destiny and the Oracle cards, I’m supposed to have a lot in common with Rory Prescott.”
Grant’s back teeth snapped together. “And Destiny is just telling you this now?”
“Yeah.” Max shrugged. “Something to do with Mercury in retrograde and Rory’s aura.”
“Didn’t know you believed in that kind of thing.”
“I don’t, but it’s no hardship to have lunch with her.”
Grant slapped the menu on the table. Rory looked up, her eyes widening slightly.
“I…uh, I thought since you worked the early shift, you’d have the afternoon off.” Her gaze skidded past him to Max.
“Nope.” He stepped aside.
“Hi, Max.” Rory stood and extended her hand, leaning forward to embrace him at the same time. Grant caught her scent—pineapple and mangoes. No wonder he always wanted to eat her.
“Good to see you, Rory.” Max regarded her with appreciation. “You look beautiful.”
“I’ll get you some water.” Grant edged between them, breaking their hand-holding, and picked up an empty glass. “You want a beer, Max?”
“Sure. Corona.” Max shed his jacket, waiting for Rory to sit again before he pulled out his own chair. “Anything you want, Rory?”
So the vet was a gentleman, too, huh? Grant had seen women giggling over him at the tavern or the docks, but he didn’t know much about the guy’s social life. Apparently he wasn’t attached, if he was out with Rory.
“I’ve got mine already, thanks.” She indicated her pale ale.
Grant strode back to the bar, stopping to take a couple of orders along the way. No harm in making Max wait a few minutes for his beer. Didn’t look as if the guy was expecting it immediately anyway, given the way his attention was fixed on Rory.
Why was she smiling? Veterinarians weren’t known for being funny, as far as Grant knew.
Turning away, he went back to the bar and refilled a couple of peanut bowls.
“Grant.”
“Rory.” He set a bowl down unnecessarily hard and started wiping down the counter. “Need another drink?”
“No.” She glanced back at Max and lowered her voice. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. I agreed to this date last week, long before our…uh, agreement.”
“You couldn’t have cancelled?”
A frown creased her forehead. “First, I didn’t see the point because if I recall, you and I are pretending. Second, Aria’s friend Brooke saw me in your car the other day, which means she got all gossipy about us. So my going out with Max will keep Aria off my case.”
Grant tossed the dishrag aside and planted his hands on the bar. His muscles were locked tight. He might’ve been gritting his teeth. “I thought you were moving away.”
“I am.”
“So why the hell are you dating a guy who lives in town?”
“Max knows I’m moving.” She reached for a peanut. “And I’m not dating him. This is the first time we’ve ever been out together. I haven’t been on a date in a while, and when Destiny brought it up, I figured it was about time.”
“Why?”
“Because I might actually attempt to have a social life when I move to San Jose.” She cracked open the peanut and shot him an irritated look. “What business is it of yours, anyway? I came over here to explain things as a friend, not to be interrogated about why I’m on a date.”
He folded his arms. “You interrogated me about Madeline Fox. Several times.”
Twin spots of color rose to her cheeks. “That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because…because…” She huffed out a breath. “Well, you said you never dated her.”
“What does that have to do with you going out with Max? And why didn’t he take you to a fine dining restaurant on your first date?”
“I suggested we come here because I didn’t want to spend a lot of time eating when you and I have to get ready for your parents,” Rory snapped in a low voice. “Plus, I didn’t think you’d be working now. Why am I finding it necessary to justify myself to you?”
“No idea.” Grant put a Corona on the bar and pushed it toward her. “That’s for your date. I’ll be over in a minute to take your order.”
“Grant, if you—”
He cut off her words by pushing the button on Bob’s plaque. The fish began warbling out “Love Me Tender.” The patrons at the bar cheered.
“Oh my god.” Rory pressed her hands to her temples. “Are you really going to be this childish?”
“You eat gummy worms for lunch, and I’m the childish one?”
“I am going to burn that fish when we’re finished with this relationship sideshow.” She grabbed the beer and turned on her heel. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my date.”
She returned to her table. Max stood when she approached, and a smile bloomed over her face. Grant clamped down on another surge of jealousy.
For the full hour and a half of Rory and Max’s lunch date—not that Grant was watching the clock—they chatted, laughed, and appeared to be having a grand old time. Rather than her usual order of an onion blossom or fried cheese curds, Rory ordered a salmon salad.
Did she think she could impress the doctor of veterinary medicine with her nutrition-conscious choice? Did she want to?
“No cheese curds?” He set the salad in front of her with a smirk.
She smiled blandly. “No, thanks.”
“What about you?” Grant looked at Max, who shook his head.
“I’m good.”
“You’re good for getting Rory to eat some fiber.” He jerked his thumb at her. “Her diet consists of three food groups—candy, fast food, and pork rinds.”
Under the table, Rory kicked him. Hard.
Appearing faintly baffled, Max shrugge
d. “I’m a fan of all those things, too. Maybe not in the same meal, though.”
“Sure you don’t want the mozzarella sticks?”
“If we want something else, we’ll order it.” Rory was still smiling, even though a muscle ticked in her jaw.
Grant held up his hands. “Just let me know.”
“Oh, I’ll let you know,” she snapped.
Grant strode back to the bar. Christ, he was such an asshole.
He told one of the servers to take over Rory’s table and went into the kitchen to cook so he’d stop fixating on them. He tied a bandana around his forehead and slapped steaks on the grill. Flames billowed up around the meat.
He’d never seen Rory on a date before. That was why he was being such a jerk. She hadn’t hooked up with any of the guys who’d propositioned her at the bar—not that Grant would know for sure, and not that he intended to speculate otherwise—and he’d taken it for granted that he knew what she did and whom she did it with. She was predictable.
Or so he’d thought. She could very well have a secret life he knew nothing about—and why wouldn’t she? He had no claim on her. He just assumed he knew her schedule because he sometimes saw her during her Sugar Joy shifts, she came into the Mousehole regularly, and she often talked about working on some database coding or whatever.
Feeling somewhat cowardly, he stayed in the kitchen for the rest of the afternoon, which was where he most liked to be anyway. He flipped burgers, grilled salmon, ladled artichoke soup, sliced freshly baked bread.
During the lull between the lunch and dinner rushes, he turned over the kitchen to one of the other chefs and started back to his house to check his voicemail messages. His parents would be arriving tomorrow at noon, and his father never deviated from a schedule.
The cottage door was open. He turned and went inside, catching a whiff of cinnamon.
What the…?
Rory stood on a stepladder, positioning a red-checkered curtain and rod into place over the window facing the woods.
“What’re you doing?”
“Dancing the tango.” She threw him a narrow look and climbed down, brushing off her hands. “What do you think?”