“You’re always so serious.” He touched her forehead again, this time rubbing in small circles as if to knead away something that wasn’t supposed to be there. “Don’t you feel that? Your forehead is always tight.”
She glared at him through his fingers. “Are you finished?”
He pulled his hand away and sighed. “Just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“You need something.” He spun around and walked to the other side of the shop.
“Really? And what would that be?”
His laugh mocked her, but before she could ask for clarification, the front door swung open and Walker Jones strolled in.
“You okay, Quinn?”
Walker sometimes acted like he was her big brother, though she had absolutely never given him a reason to think of himself that way. He seemed to feel like he owed it to her dad to watch out for her. When would both of them learn she could take care of herself? She glanced at Grady—she couldn’t be sure, but she thought if it weren’t for the shelf he was propped up on, he might fall over. He blinked—slowly—then bobbed his head in her direction.
For the briefest moment, she almost felt sorry for the guy. He was clearly miserable and trying to cover it up with bad behavior and alcohol, and while she couldn’t relate because she covered her misery with hard work and a neatly checked-off to-do list, she supposed she could muster a bit of empathy for him. From somewhere down deep. Down very, very deep.
Besides, she had Jaden to think about. She’d made Carly a promise, and she’d never be able to ask Grady for her favor if she got on his bad side now.
“I’m fine, Walker.”
The deputy’s eyes darted from her to Grady and back again. “You sure?”
“She said she’s fine.” Grady’s slur had gotten more pronounced. For the love. This guy had terrible timing.
“I didn’t ask you, Benson.” Walker sauntered over to Grady, who didn’t move. “Heard you were making quite the commotion at the Lucky Lady a little while ago. Got a call about you disturbing the peace.”
“Why do you think I left?” Grady’s words were sharp and staccato. A short pause between each one, as if he was working overtime to sound, well, not drunk.
It wasn’t helping.
Walker stuck his thumbs in his belt loops and squared off with athletic, intoxicated Grady. “You planning to drive home in that condition? See your car’s out on the street.”
“I don’t plan on going home for a long, long time, for your information,” Grady said.
“He wasn’t going to drive, Walker,” Quinn heard herself say.
“How do you know?” Walker faced her.
“I was just about to get my keys and give him a ride back to Cedar Grove.”
Walker watched as she pulled her purse out from behind the counter. “I’ll just take him then.”
“No,” Grady said. “I want her.”
Quinn felt her eyes widen, but she quickly recovered. “I’ve got it, Walker. I’ll be fine.”
Walker watched Quinn for a long moment, then turned toward Grady. “If you lay a finger on her . . .”
Grady’s scoff cut him off. “Her? She can’t stand me. She’s. Driving. Me. Home. That’s. It.” Again with the overpronounced words.
“He’s not wrong. I can’t stand him,” Quinn said. “But my dad would want me to run him home.” She leaned toward Walker. “I think he might actually need a friend.”
She’d made up that last part, though she had no idea why.
“Fine, but you call me if he gets out of line.” Walker started for the door.
Grady waved a hand up over his head. “So long, Texas Ranger!”
Walker slowed his pace but didn’t turn around.
“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” Quinn asked after Walker had gone.
Grady laughed. “That guy is like a cartoon character.”
“Maybe, but he can throw you straight in jail if you’re not careful, and I’m pretty sure he can’t stand you either, so you should probably knock it off.” She slung her purse over her shoulder. “Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“For me to drive you back to Cedar Grove?”
He let out a stream of air. “I can walk.”
“Don’t be an idiot.” She reached into his coat pocket, hoping to find his keys, trying to ignore the close proximity of his ridiculously muscular body.
“What are you doing?”
She reached into the other pocket. “Looking for your keys.”
She felt—not saw—his grin. “They’re in my pants pocket.”
She rolled her eyes and pulled away, holding out an upturned hand. “Give them to me.”
The frown he put on was apparently meant to match her own. He dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled the keys out, then stuck them in her hand, and seconds later that mischievous smirk returned. “I can’t figure you out, Quinn Collins.”
“Good.” She walked toward the back door, but quickly realized he wasn’t following her. When she turned around, she saw him standing in the same spot, looking a little disoriented. “What’s wrong?”
“My head is spinning.”
She felt her frown grow deeper. “Can you walk to the car? Wait. You’re not going to throw up, are you?”
His upheld hand said Wait a minute, and she stopped moving. After several seconds, he glanced at her. “I’m good.” He took one step and stumbled forward, the weight of his tightly toned body landing on her. She tried to hold him up, but his fall had caught her off guard; plus, he was twice her size. She peered out the window toward the SUV he’d parked across the street, just a few doors down from the Lucky Lady, Harbor Pointe’s one and only bar.
She could drive that instead of taking her Jetta, but how was she going to get him out there, into the car, and then into his cottage at Cedar Grove? The drive to the edge of town could lull him right to sleep, or worse, he could pass out—and then what was she going to do? She couldn’t leave an unconscious Grady Benson in the car overnight.
Against her better judgment, she wrapped an arm around him and tried to maneuver his bulk through the flower shop and into the back room.
“Where are we going?”
“Will you just try not to pass out? Walk.” She sounded bossy—even she could hear that.
He did as he was told and they made it to the back room, where she pulled open the door that led upstairs to her apartment.
“What’s this? A secret passageway?” Grady sounded equal parts intrigued and sleepy.
“It’s the stairway to my apartment,” she said. “Can you make it?”
He stopped and looked at her, his face perilously close to hers. “Are you going to try to take advantage of me, Quinn Collins?”
She let out a purposeful huff. “You wish.”
“I do wish,” he said, laughing.
She ignored his drunk comment, reminding herself that it absolutely did not qualify as a compliment, and tried to push him up the stairs. “Let’s go, lover boy.”
He laughed again. “I wonder what Quinn Collins’s apartment looks like on the inside. Gotta say, Q, I never thought I’d find out.”
“Well, extenuating circumstances and all that.” This had to be the worst idea she’d ever had. She should’ve shoved him out on the street and gone to bed. But that’s not who she was, not even with someone whose charms she was intent on resisting.
They’d reached the top, and she made sure he was somewhat stable leaning in the corner of the stairway before letting him go. “Don’t move.”
“You got it.” He picked up a strand of her hair and twirled it around his finger while she hurried to get the door open.
She didn’t bother telling him to knock it off—he likely wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow anyway.
She pushed open the door and took a couple of steps inside, waiting for him to do the same. He was slow and methodical as he moved, as if there was a slight—or not-so-sligh
t—chance he might collapse at any moment.
“Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you some coffee?”
“You don’t have any beer?”
“Seriously?”
“It was a joke. Sheesh.” He plopped down on the sofa as she flipped a few lights on. She was aware that he was watching her, but she was the only other person in the room. What else was he supposed to look at?
She moved to the kitchen and filled her coffee carafe with water. “Do you take your coffee black?” She’d called out so he’d hear her from the living area, but when she turned around, she found him standing at her kitchen counter. “What are you doing?”
“You’re being nice to me,” he said. “That’s not like you.”
She had no idea why, but the comment amused her, and she had to look away before he saw the smile on her face. “Go back and sit down. I’ll bring you some coffee when it’s ready.”
He tipped his head to the side and shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
But he didn’t go back and sit down. Instead, he started walking around the loft, looking at her decorations, touching knickknacks, making her nervous. He held up a framed photo that was on a shelf of her entertainment center. “This is the same picture on the wall downstairs.”
He remembered that?
“Who is it?”
She moved into the living room, took the photo from him, and put it back on the shelf where it belonged. “It’s nothing.”
“Obviously it’s something or you wouldn’t have two copies of it.”
She didn’t want to talk about her mother—not with anyone, but especially not with Grady. Somehow she thought it would make her horribly unattractive, admitting that her own mother didn’t want her.
Not that she wanted Grady to find her attractive. It just wasn’t a subject she discussed.
“Sit down.” She gave him a push and he fell onto the couch.
“You’re bossy.”
“Yes, I am. You’d be smart to start listening to me.” She walked back into the kitchen and poured him a cup of coffee, struggling not to feel off-kilter about the turn this night had taken. She knew herself. She liked rules and thrived on routine. Having Grady Benson in her loft was against the rules and certainly not in her routine, which was quite possibly why the whole situation had her on edge.
She’d only made him coffee because it’s what people in the movies made for drunk people when they were attempting to sober them up. At this point, however, she might be better off to let him pass out on her couch and call it a night.
She handed him the mug, and he set it on the table beside the couch without taking a drink.
“I’m curious about you,” he said. “You’re not like most girls.”
She should probably be enough of a modern woman to take that as a compliment, but somehow it nicked a nerve—the I’m-not-pretty-enough nerve. But she had a feeling he wasn’t talking about the way she looked.
“You’re different.”
“Why, because I don’t throw myself at you?” She had no idea where that came from, and she regretted it as soon as she said it.
He, however, found it amusing and laughed. “That’s part of it.” He leaned his head back on the sofa, forearm resting on it. “My sponsor dropped me.”
She quietly sat down on the other end of the couch.
“Been with them ten years and they cut me off—” he snapped his fingers—“just like that.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, realizing she actually meant it.
He shook his head. “It’s my own fault. I’ve got a temper. I don’t listen to my coaches. I’m always trying to do it my own way.”
“Sounds like a bunch of stuff you’ve heard other people say about you.”
He moved his arm and looked at her, sinking a little bit lower in his seat. “It’s true, though, isn’t it?”
She gave a soft shrug. “I don’t know.”
He shifted. “That’s right. Because you think skiing is stupid.”
She laughed. “I do not.”
He stopped, then leaned in closer. “Did you just laugh?”
“It does happen on occasion,” she said.
“It should happen more.”
There was a soft lull, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure what to do next. Should she say good night? Try again to drive him home? Get him a blanket?
“You’ve got everything all figured out—like a grown-up,” he said.
“I am a grown-up.”
“Yeah, I’m supposed to be one too, and look at me.”
“You are kind of a mess.”
He laughed and shook his head. “I know. And I’m going to get worse if I don’t get back on the team.”
She could see it in his eyes—a quiet desperation for something just out of reach. She recognized it because she saw it in her own eyes every single day. Odd as it was, she thought she and Grady Benson might actually have something in common.
“So, what, am I spending the night or are you going to let me walk?”
“You are not walking all the way to Cedar Grove.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Fine with me.”
“You can sleep on the couch.” She stood. “I’ll go get you a pillow and blanket.”
This is a very bad idea.
She disappeared into the bathroom, the only room in her whole loft with an actual door on it, and drew in three deep breaths. What was happening? Why was she suddenly feeling sorry for him?
Get a grip, Quinn. He’s just a guy who needs a couch to crash on. That’s it.
But as the thought left her mind, she wondered how on earth she was going to sleep knowing there was only a thin partition at the foot of her bed separating the two of them.
A knock on the door startled her, but she pulled it open, again doing her best to look nonchalant.
Grady stood on the other side. He’d taken off his coat and now wore only a gray T-shirt and jeans. Unfortunately for her, she could see the definition of his muscles under the shirt, and that did nothing to calm her jumpy nerves.
He leaned against the doorframe and stared at her.
She met his eyes, wishing she didn’t feel as unsteady as he looked.
“Can I get a glass of water?”
She clung to the doorknob more tightly than necessary. “Of course.”
“Thanks.” He walked off, leaving her standing there, reminding herself that this man was a terrible dose of really bad news.
He was the kind of guy her father had always warned her about, and she knew it.
Remember that, Quinn.
She grabbed sheets, a blanket, and an extra pillow from the linen closet and went back into the living room. She set the blanket and pillow on the end of the couch and unfolded the sheet, then spread it across the cushions.
Grady shut the light off in the kitchen and came up beside her. “What are you doing?”
She let the sheet fall to the ground. “I’m making your bed—what does it look like I’m doing?” She kept her tone light, feeling a surprising kindness toward him.
He set his water down and she went back to spreading the sheet. Seconds later, his hand was on her shoulder. “You don’t have to do that.”
She turned—slightly—toward him. “I don’t mind. I’d rather have you on my couch than walking home—or worse, driving—in your current state.” She glanced up and found his eyes on her, an oddly serious expression on his face.
“Thanks,” he said.
“My father thinks you’re redeemable.”
He watched her, still touching her arm, his large hand making her feel small. “What do you think?”
His eyes held sadness, maybe even deep pain, the kind she was sure he rarely let show through. She held his gaze for several seconds but didn’t respond.
“Never mind,” he said. “Don’t answer that.” He let his hand slide down toward hers, then picked up the sheet she was holding. He slung it sloppily over the couch, then picked up the pillow and th
rew it down. “There. Perfect.”
“You can’t sleep on it like that.”
“Does it bother you that it’s not neatly tucked?”
Maybe.
She said nothing, but bent over and tugged at the corners, making the makeshift bed a little neater.
Behind her, he laughed. “I really can’t figure you out.”
She stood upright and faced him. “You said that already.”
“You can’t figure me out either. Don’t pretend you can.”
She narrowed her gaze and stepped forward. “You’re not that hard to figure out, Grady.” Though she had to admit, tonight had her rethinking a few of her perceptions of him. “You like fast cars, fast women, and anything that puts you in danger.”
He looked like he was about to say something but snapped his jaw shut.
“You’re such a cliché.” She shook her head and turned to go back to the sheets, but he moved between her and the couch.
“Don’t get mean again on me now.” His smile was lazy, his eyes flashing mischief. Whatever serious moment they’d almost had a minute ago was long gone, and the slightly drunk, not remotely serious version of Grady Benson had returned.
“I’m not mean,” she said, picking up the pillow.
“You get all flustered and your cheeks turn pink.” He grabbed the end of the pillow and tugged on it, pulling her closer to him, still wearing that smirk. “It’s kind of cute.”
She tugged back, but his grip was solid, and instead of putting the desired distance between them, she stumbled forward and straight into his brick wall of a body. As if it was what he expected all along, his hand steadied her, but before she could pull away, he leaned in closer and kissed her.
The kiss only lasted a few seconds, but it was long enough to elevate her heart rate and plenty of time for her to notice how soft and full Grady’s lips were.
And that he knew how to kiss a woman.
She pulled back, pillow still in her hand, scanning him for any sign of regret. She found none.
Instead, he looked perfectly comfortable with what had just happened even though it was highly inappropriate and had sent her insides tumbling around in ways she would never admit out loud.
“You need to sleep whatever this is off.” She tossed the pillow onto the couch. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
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