by Kendall Ryan
As if he reads my mind, Grant’s voice fills my ear once again. “It’s raining here. How’s the weather over there?”
My heart swells. I know he’s asking because he’s thinking about how I can’t sleep when it’s storming at night. Because of what happened to my mom.
I take a moment to listen for rain on the windows, covered now by heavy, dark blue curtains, before responding in a quiet whisper.
“No rain here. I wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway, over the dog’s snoring.” I wince, scrunching my eyes closed. Dang. “He’s in bed with me . . . is that okay?”
“Yeah, why?” Grant’s answer is immediate and laced with confusion.
“Some people don’t like the smell of dog on the furniture. Dirt, and whatever,” I say, which is odd enough in itself. Did he really not think about this when he allowed a rambunctious little furball into his home?
“Oh, I don’t care at all. We had a dog when I was growing up. Ruby slept on the couch.”
“Ruby?”
“She was a yellow Lab. My mom and dad adopted her shortly after they adopted me. I wasn’t that social as a kid.”
“Oh, really? You weren’t?” I tease, curling my toes into the sheets.
“I know. I did a real one-eighty as an adult, didn’t I?” Grant chuckles.
We’re both dissolving into laughter when I hear an unfamiliar voice on the other end, calling for Grant.
“I’m on the phone. Hold on.” His voice is distant for a moment, like he’s holding the phone away from his mouth to respond to this mystery person.
I bite my lip. I don’t want this phone call to end.
“Sorry,” Grant says. “That was Jordie. I guess he found me.”
“Were you hiding?”
“Something like that.” Grant chuckles again.
I really love that sound. It’s deep and rumbly, and slices right through me.
“Well, I’ll let you go, then,” I say, ignoring the subtle ache in my chest. Time to be a grown-up. I can’t spend all night giggling on the phone with a boy, like we’re hormonal teenagers.
Grant sighs, and I can imagine him scrubbing his face with one hand like he does. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Big game tomorrow. Probably should attempt to get some sleep.”
“Good luck,” I say, meaning it with my whole heart. He deserves to win.
“Thank you, Ana,” he says, and I commit to memory the sound of my name on his lips. “Sleep well, okay? And call me if you need anything.”
“I will. Good night, Grant.”
“Good night.”
We hang up, and I let my phone drop onto the bed.
Hobbes snaps awake with a jolt, surprised by the movement. I apologize to him with a soft kiss on his wet little nose, and he soon curls back into a fluffy mound against my side.
The bed is warm, embracing me in a cocoon of cotton and silk. I’m thankful to have this little companion in my bed, even if he does have paws. And the assurance that Grant is only a phone call away gives me comfort too. He’s an interesting man, and the more I learn about him, the more I want to know.
I’ve always assumed strength is loud. That the loudest voice in the room belongs to the strongest person. But with Grant, I’m learning strength can be silent too. Because his quiet and thoughtful approach is the most dignified thing I’ve ever seen.
That quiet strength communicates so much more than words ever could. His expressive gray eyes say that he’ll catch me when I fall, that I’m really welcome here, despite my anxiety that tells me otherwise. That he doesn’t blame me for finding myself in such a disastrous relationship. With everything I’ve been through lately, it means a lot to know that someone believes in me.
It’s with those comforting thoughts that I slip into a peaceful slumber.
8
* * *
Coupling Up
Grant
“And then she made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone,” Asher says with a chuckle.
Well, it’s safe to say the cat’s out of the bag on that one. The topic of tonight’s conversation? The time one of the rookies, Landon, witnessed Asher’s fiancée giving him a blow job.
God, I swear my teammates are idiots.
We’re at the bar now, and even though we can’t partake in anything stronger than soda and lemonade the night before a game, we’ll be damned if we go to bed before curfew.
But their weird sex stories are actually an improvement over the dinner conversations I was forced to endure. At the team dinner tonight, there was a whole lot of wedding talk. My teammate Teddy and his former fiancée and now brand-new wife, Sara, just eloped. And another teammate of mine, Justin, is planning a wedding to his long-time girlfriend, Elise. Owen’s married now, and Asher is engaged. Only the couple of rookies are still single—well, and me, of course.
I always feel so alone during these discussions with nothing to contribute to the conversation besides some well-timed nodding.
But tonight something feels different, because all I can think about is the fact that I do have a woman living in my apartment right now, however temporary that might be. Still, I like the thought that I have someone to come home to after this trip. I wonder if my place will smell like her, or maybe like buttery French toast again. I find myself smiling at the idea of that.
I always figured I’d be married by now, maybe even have a couple of kids filling the bedrooms of a big house in the suburbs. A big backyard with touch football games, and barbecues, and lemonade. It’s what I pictured when I was younger, what I hoped for. But at thirty-two, I’m still single and living alone in a condo. My teammates are my family, and while most of them are years younger than me, they’re all starting to find someone special and get married. It’s something I try not to dwell on often.
My phone conversation with Ana earlier still swirls in my head, making it difficult to focus on the conversation around me.
I know she thinks she’s in the way, but the truth is, I like knowing she’s there. Like just having another human in my place. I love how she’s made herself at home in my kitchen, love the way her nose scrunches up when her dog does something naughty. I like the sound of her laugh, and the way she hums to herself when she cooks. She’s so domestic and nurturing, even with that damn dog. I know she’ll make a great wife someday to a lucky man. It’s a hard idea to swallow, because I also know that man won’t be me.
God, the image of her standing naked at the bathtub is one I won’t soon forget. Pale curves and full breasts . . . my hands itched to touch her. I wouldn’t, of course. Couldn’t.
“What do you think, Grant?” Jordie asks, pulling my attention back to the conversation.
“About what?”
He sighs, shaking his head. “About what will happen to Kress once his suspension is up?”
That’s a great question, and one I have no answer to. In the meantime, there’s one thing I know for sure.
I’ll do my damnedest to keep Ana safe.
9
* * *
Giving In
Ana
The following night, I find myself in Grant’s bed. His sheets smell just like him—clean and earthy, reminding me of the night air right after a brutal storm. Unfortunately, the storm outside still rages, with no promise of letting up anytime soon.
Memories of that fateful night flash with every bolt of lightning, totally wreaking havoc on any sense of calm I’ve achieved. I’m too old to be afraid of the dark, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am. I see death and destruction lurking in its shadows, and panicked feelings claw up my throat, tightening it like a noose. I should have outgrown this anxiety by now, and I’m ashamed that I haven’t.
In the echo of each crack, I can still hear the phone ringing, the one next to the fridge in my family’s kitchen. Then I hear the hurried shuffle of my dad’s slippers from his post at the living room window to the phone. It was his crying that pulled me out of bed, and I tiptoed on cold toes to the kitchen.
I will never forget Dad’s near-animalistic wailing, or the sight of him crumpled on the linoleum floor. I’d never heard him cry before that night. I would later learn that Mom’s car was crushed by the impact of another vehicle, the roads slick with freezing rain. All I knew in that moment, though, was that something was terribly wrong.
When the storm began around nine o’clock this evening, I managed to stay bundled up with Hobbes in the guest room for the first hour of rainfall. But then lightning began painting the room white in violent strokes. So, with trembling hands, I carried Hobbes with me to Grant’s bedroom, which is larger and somehow cozier with a big fluffy king-size bed and a soft wool rug on the floor. And since he isn’t home, I didn’t see the harm in camping out in here for a little while until the storm passes.
After setting Hobbes down on the dark blue duvet, I rushed to the sole window in his room to close the heavy curtain, muffling the roaring thunder behind a single pane of thin glass and, thank God, the thick drapes. Once I snuggled into bed, I caught Grant’s scent on the pillow, masculine and with a hint of spice from whatever products he uses. Wrapped in his sheets, I suddenly felt protected. Strange how comforting this smell is.
Now, at least an hour has passed. I’m beginning to doze off, my nose tucked under the sinfully soft sheets. I find myself savoring every inhalation of Grant’s comforting shampoo. Or is it body wash? There I go again, thinking about him in the shower . . .
Click.
My eyes flutter open, adjusting to the sudden light in the corner of the room. What time is it?
Grant is home, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the bright interior of the walk-in closet. After a few blinks, I can make out the full form of his body, removing the suit he’s required to wear while flying with careful, quiet motions. He moves as silently as he can, trying not to wake me.
Oh no . . . how long have I been asleep? From the way his sheets are twisted around my legs and my dog is nowhere to be seen, it’s been hours.
I would be embarrassed, but I’m too awestruck to care. I haven’t slept through a storm in . . . at least a decade. Usually, the best I can do is pop a sleeping pill and hope the nightmares don’t leave me with muscle tension in the morning.
Amazingly, the rain still pours outside, but the thunder is only a low rumble. The little girl in me wants to dive back under the duvet and snatch a few more hours of peaceful sleep, but the adult knows I need to give Grant his bed back. And apologize.
I sit up, and Grant must hear me rustling in his bed because he turns around.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs softly, his eyes wide and his hands hovering over the buttons of his dress shirt.
Through the opening of the shirt and the way the rain-drenched fabric clings to his chest, I can make out every delicious muscle. Even in the dim light of the room, I’m taken with how strikingly handsome this man is. Beautiful, even.
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, clearing my throat. “I wasn’t sleeping well in the guest room because of the storm.” I swing my bare legs over the side of the bed, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.
Grant glances at the drape-covered window, then takes a step toward me. “I figured.” He nods, gesturing to the door. “I was going to crash on the couch. Just need to change. You can stay right there.”
My lips part. I close my eyes with a resigned sigh, my gaze downcast.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m taking advantage of him. I’ve disrupted his world with my personal problems, and now I have the audacity to sneak into his bed?
When I open my eyes, I see Grant’s sock-covered feet cross the wooden floor to the side of the bed, where he stands over me. I can’t bear to meet his eyes. I don’t know what will come out of my mouth if I do.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his hands at his sides.
Thunder cracks outside, and I jolt involuntarily. I don’t have time to kick myself for my skittishness because I’m suddenly staring into two warm eyes, my shoulders held tightly in his hands as Grant kneels down before me. I feel so incredibly naked right now . . . even more so than when he actually saw my naked body.
“Hey, what can I do?” he asks, his eyes searching my face with a concern I never expected.
I have no idea what’s come over me, but in this moment, I ache for his attention and care, after years of having neither. It’s hard not to when he gives it so freely.
“Can you . . .” I hesitate, uncertain of what I’m about to suggest. “Can you stay in here?”
It’s a bold question, but his eyes don’t leave mine.
“I can’t sleep after a game. I don’t want to keep you up.” His voice is soft, but deep.
“You won’t,” I say, scooting across the mattress. I pat the warm space on the bed next to me. “Would you just lay here for a while? Next to me?”
He seems to consider this for a moment. I’m certain he’s going to come up with some excuse about respecting my space, or something equally as dumb and gentlemanly.
Instead, I feel the mattress give as he leans over the bed, carefully lying on his back so his body is across from mine, one hand sandwiched between his head and the pillow. He keeps a safe distance between us, his gaze glued to the ceiling, his expression unreadable.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and I lie down on my side, the pillow cool against my cheek. I take a moment to stare at his profile now, memorizing the faint lines around his eyes, the sharp angle of his nose, the plump outline of his lips.
After a prolonged moment of silence, Grant’s lips part. “Are you sure you’re okay?” His voice is strained, like he’s on edge about something.
I hope it’s not me.
“I don’t know,” I say, my emotions floundering somewhere between fear and fascination. For as loudly as the rain beats against the window, the beating of my heart thrums even louder in my ears. “My mom died the night of a storm. They’ve bothered me ever since.”
Bothered me are the words I use, but according to the therapist I saw for years afterward, it’s actually anxiety. There are pills that could help me, but I never bothered taking them. They made me feel fidgety and weird.
“How can I help?”
Grant turns his face just enough so that his eyes can meet mine. I’m a buttery puddle in the warmth of his gaze.
“Hold me?” I rasp out the words without thinking.
The storm outside is like a faint memory. Now, the only sound I can hear is my blood pumping through my veins. What am I doing? Yes, having his arms around me will help, but I have no right to ask that of him.
“How?” he asks, unsure of what I want.
“Like this,” I murmur, my hair dragging over the pillow as I lean into him, nestling my cheek against his broad chest.
The relief that sweeps over me is instantaneous, and I can’t help but run my hand up his abdomen, resting it in the crevice between his firm pectoral muscles, my fingers playing with the buttons of his still-damp shirt. I sigh. He just feels so good.
For all of my nuzzling, Grant is incredibly still. I can’t tell if he’s even breathing. Maybe he’s waiting for instructions? Permission?
“Put your arm around me,” I whisper, my eyelids drooping.
He does, slowly, and before long, I’m locked in his firm but gentle embrace.
Oh my God. I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear drips down my nose and onto the collar of his shirt.
“It’s okay to be scared,” he murmurs, pressing his lips against my hair.
Grant’s voice rasps pleasantly in my ear, and I nestle myself deeper into his arms with another shaky sigh. The simple, heartfelt act and his kind words comfort me more than I thought they would.
“You’re safe. Breathe, sweetheart. You’re safe with me. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
I do, drawing in a long breath and releasing it just as slowly.
“That’s it. Do it again for me.”
I inhale again, breathing deeply so I can feel my rib cage expand, t
he fullness of my breasts brushing against his firm chest.
“If you need to talk,” he says, his voice deep, “I’m here. I’m not good at that kind of thing, but I can listen.”
“It’s okay.” I breathe out slowly. “I’m okay. Just hold me a minute longer?”
“Anything.”
We stay like that for several minutes. The temperature in the room seems to rise until it’s humid between us, the air thick with tension. And temptation. And something else I can’t quite put my finger on.
My next words pour out of me like rain from a gutter. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
When Grant doesn’t respond, my fingers slide up his chest to his throat, and along the defined line of his stubbled jaw. With a shaking hand, I draw his face toward mine, our eyes meeting in the darkness of the room.
“Did you hear me?” I ask, my gaze flicking between his eyes and lips.
His tongue darts out to lick his lips, leaving a hypnotizing gleam. “Yeah.” He breathes out, saying softly, “It’s no pr—”
I bring my mouth to his in a breathless kiss, humility be damned.
Grant grunts low, his hand shooting up to catch my jaw with calloused fingers. His lips are sinfully soft against mine, and they move slowly, not asking for too much too soon. I press into him, my fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck with a desperation brewing in my belly that I haven’t felt since . . . maybe ever.
I pull back, pressing my thumb to his lower lip. “Is this okay?” I whisper, praying that he says, Yes, this is more than okay.
Grant doesn’t speak, his breathing ragged and slow. I rub my thumb across his full lower lip. He draws my thumb into his mouth, catching my fingertip on his teeth. I hold my breath as Grant slides his fingers into the curtain of hair draped over my collarbone, pulling it over my shoulder to reveal the length of my neck.
He moves deliberately and leans down to press his lips to mine in a slow kiss, his palm resting firmly on the junction of my neck and shoulder.