by Olivia Dade
Patricia’s sobs started to slow. “Y-you are the most st-stubborn man.”
“You knew that when you married me.” He managed a grin. “And it’s too late to bring me back to the bachelor store. There’s a strict return policy on obstinate old coots like me.”
Grant squeezed his mother’s shoulders and then let her go. “Okay, Dad. Let’s get you in your recliner.”
Ten minutes later, his father was resting in his favorite chair, his walker back by his side. Edward had promised to use it until the doctor told him otherwise, much to everyone’s relief. And Patricia was watching Grant fix her a cup of tea. Her dark hair, now threaded liberally with white, fell in curls to her shoulders, and her glasses rested slightly askew on her turned-up nose.
“I’m sorry.” She blotted at her eyes with a tissue. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.”
He abandoned the box of tea bags and hugged her. “Please don’t apologize. I’m just sorry I wasn’t here earlier to help you.”
A quick glance around the kitchen over his mother’s shoulder revealed even more tasks to accomplish tonight. Cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. Dirty countertops. Dishes piled high in the sink. All the things his parents used to address without difficulty, now neglected in the face of his father’s recovery and his mother’s new role as caretaker.
This. This was why Grant couldn’t risk his job to be with Angie. No matter how much he wanted her.
His mother seemed to read his thoughts. “Yesterday morning, you said you’d met a special woman. Angie. Did you see her again today?”
He talked to his parents before work every day, just to check in and make sure they didn’t need help. Usually, he didn’t say too much himself.
Yesterday, though . . . he’d talked about Angie. Gushed about her, actually. Told his mother that he might have finally met the perfect woman for him. Described Angie’s intelligence, her humor, and her warmth. He’d left out a few key facts about their time together, of course. His mom didn’t need to know that Angie had spent the night at his house. But he’d said more than enough to reveal his excitement about meeting her.
Too much, as it turned out.
“Doesn’t matter.” He hoped his mother couldn’t feel his shoulder stiffen beneath her cheek, but she probably could. “Turns out, she’s not the perfect woman for me after all.”
And if those words didn’t feel right on his tongue, he could ignore that. Just like he could ignore the thickness in his throat and the ache that had returned to his chest.
14
When Grant’s alarm clock blasted Rachmaninoff the next morning, he pulled the pillow over his head and groaned. After a restless night, he was anticipating another day of torture. Another day spent sitting at a small table across from Angie. Another day of seeing her within arm’s reach but untouchable in every important way. He suspected he might not survive it, at least not with his sanity intact.
He’d spent most of the night thinking about her, puzzling over the mystery of Angela Burrowes. To the casual observer, she came across as straightforward. Uncomplicated. He suspected she didn’t say most of what she thought or felt, though. If he understood her better, maybe he could have predicted her precipitous flight from the meeting room during the eye-contact exercise. Maybe he could figure out a way to defend himself against the magnetic pull he felt in her presence. Maybe she’d retreat from the forefront of his mind and allow him to get some fucking rest.
Even taking his cock in hand during the night hadn’t helped him sleep. It had felt good, of course. Especially when he pictured Angie back in that blindfold, spread helpless before him and whimpering in pleasure. He’d come hard to that image. Harder than he ever had during actual lovemaking with any woman—except Angie.
The woman was killing him. Christ almighty.
The sight of her sitting alone in the meeting room didn’t change that verdict in the slightest. She’d settled at their isolated corner table, her eyes on the handout in front of her. When she saw him, though, her face lit with the beaming smile he couldn’t resist. His discreet glance downward revealed a formfitting green sweater, one that outlined her curves faithfully. The hem of her denim skirt hovered an inch or two above her knees, exposing a good amount of her gorgeous legs. She’d piled her curls in a cheerful profusion on top of her head, with a few errant tendrils hanging down to her neck and brushing her cheek. Her gold earrings dangled to her shoulders.
Her eyes shone bright. Her smile stretched wide. She appeared entirely happy and carefree today.
Obviously, she’d experienced a better night’s sleep than he had. Lucky her.
He sat down across the table from her. “Good morning, Angie.”
“Morning, Grant,” she said. “I was taking a look at our agenda. Looks like we have an extremely busy day ahead. I guess Winona planned for us to either become a well-oiled team or perish in the attempt.”
He chuckled. “I can only imagine the obituary.”
“They died because of an ill-fated trust fall,” she intoned in a deep, solemn voice. “Let that be a lesson to the youth of the world: Don’t trust anyone.”
“I think most teenagers already have that covered.”
She grinned at him. “Where do we want to start today?”
He glanced down at the itinerary. “Holy shit,” he muttered. “You weren’t joking about the trust falls.”
“Expect to be crushed when I fall,” she said. “Also, I make no promises about my ability to catch you. No, that’s a lie. I promise I won’t be able to do so. Has your medical insurance kicked in? Because you’re going to need it today.”
“Aren’t several people supposed to catch us?” he asked in disbelief. “This can’t be right.”
“Oh, come on, Grant. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Concussion. Paralysis. Death.”
She rolled her eyes. “We’re doing it in the kids’ storytime room. The floor in there is squishy, and we can strategically pile some stuffed animals beneath the drop zone. From what Tina said when I dropped by her office, everyone else reported there first thing this morning for the minefield exercise and trust falls.”
A smart man would suggest they join the group. Resisting Angie would surely prove easier while surrounded by his new coworkers. But how many opportunities would he have to be alone with her in the future? Shouldn’t he take advantage of one last day together?
“I need to work up to possible brain trauma,” he said. “Let’s start with something else. Something less likely to result in full-body casts.”
“The Life Highlights activity, then. We’re supposed to close our eyes and consider the best moments of our lives thus far for a minute. Then we get another minute to decide which minute of our lives we’d want to relive for the last sixty seconds of our time on earth.”
“That’s fucking depressing.” He kept his voice low, despite the empty room.
“No joke. I figure we’ll look forward to the trust falls after this. The peaceful oblivion of unconsciousness may prove a welcome reprieve from all the gloomy shit.”
He fiddled with his watch, setting the timer. “Let’s do it. Two minutes to think about the best moments of our lives. Starting . . . now.”
He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. Finding the happiest moments of his life should take no effort, right? He enjoyed his life. Always had, even when he’d been penned up at home or lying in a hospital bed. He’d been blessed with a loving family, adequate financial resources, and enough luck to make a comfortable place for himself in the world. But . . .
He frowned. Did contentment and a comfortable life equal happiness? Did he even have a moment he’d want to relive at the end of his life? Or had he done what Angie had warned about only yesterday? In his quest for safety and logic, had he put off real joy until some indefinite time in the future, waiting for a time that might never arrive?
Shit, he thought. If I died tomorrow, what moments of blinding joy would I have to sh
ow for my life? None. None at all.
He opened his eyes and saw that Angie’s were still closed. She looked peaceful, a small smile quirking her generous mouth, her face soft. Very much as she’d appeared while falling asleep in his bed three days ago. Once again, the memory of their brief time together seared through him, making his heart turn over with a combination of sadness and remembered exhilaration.
Then he knew: That was it. She was it. The best thirty seconds of his life. The morning she’d woken up at his house, and they’d cuddled sleepily together before she’d had to leave for work. The sheer sense of wonder he’d felt at the miracle of a woman like Angie in his arms—
He’d relive it every day if he could. Every minute. The last minute of his life.
The timer on his watch buzzed, and she opened her eyes.
“That didn’t depress me nearly as much as I thought it would,” she said.
“You go first, then,” he invited.
“I debated which sixty-second chunk to choose. I thought about when my sister told me she’d named little Angela after me. Or the first time I realized Penny had become my best friend. Or . . . other occasions.” A shadow crossed her face.
“Other occasions?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Irrelevant. In the end, though, I think the happiest minute of my life was when I got the acceptance letter from the University of Maryland for their Master of Library Science program. That was the moment I knew my future had shifted, and I was turning my life in the right direction. I felt proud and excited and so very happy, Grant.”
He could tell. She glowed, just remembering it.
“What about you?” she asked.
And there it was. The question he knew was coming. The question he dreaded. What could he say without making her uncomfortable or flouting all rules of professional conduct? He didn’t want to lie, though. And he didn’t want to admit that his life had held precious few moments of boundless joy and possibility. Could he tell her the truth? Should he?
Fuck it. It wasn’t as if Angie prized professional detachment that highly anyway.
He met her eyes, even though he desperately wanted to look anywhere else. A man had his pride, though. Pride and a very pink face, which he refused to hide from her.
“I’d relive those sixty seconds when I held you in bed Tuesday morning, right after my alarm went off. They were the happiest moments of my life thus far.” He stifled a bitter laugh. “I can only hope I have other moments in the future that make me equally happy. Because otherwise, you’re looking at a man with a disappointing future, Angie.”
Her face went pale as he spoke. “Don’t say that, Grant.”
“It’s true. No point in denying the truth, even if nothing can come of it.”
She stared at him. “I can’t believe you admitted that.”
“I know. It’s pathetic, isn’t—”
“Because I wasn’t going to admit it,” she interrupted, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. “Even though I’d happily relive that morning with you during the last minute of my life. It’s right up there with the moment I got into the MLS program. Maybe even better.”
It was his turn to stare at her. Her eyes shone with sincerity and more than a little sadness. Her hands lay clasped in front of her on the table, and they gripped each other so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
“Well,” he finally said.
“Well.”
“It doesn’t change anything, of course.”
“Nope.”
But that was a lie, and he knew it. It changed everything—for the worst. Now he’d have to live not only with his keen regret over the wasted opportunity for love with Angie, but also the knowledge that she felt the connection just as strongly. That she shared his feelings to their full extent.
She’d get over it. A vibrant, strong woman like Angie wouldn’t pine forever. She’d find love with someone else. His own road forward seemed less clear, though. He wasn’t a man who connected easily with others, especially women. He didn’t foresee another stroke of incredible serendipity like the one he’d experienced with Angie. Not anytime soon. Maybe not ever.
Once again, he had to agree with her. The peaceful oblivion of unconsciousness after a failed trust fall sounded good right about now.
At the sound of voices and laughter, he broke their eye contact and looked toward the door. The rest of their group must have just finished the physical exercises, because they appeared rumpled but happy as they filed back into the meeting space.
He stood up. “Let’s go see what sort of injuries we can accumulate in the storytime room. What do we have to lose?”
“Nothing,” she said, rising to her feet. “Nothing at all.”
“I don’t care what you say,” he told Angie. “I’m not falling on you.”
Everyone else in the training session had apparently completed the minefield activity and their trust falls. He and Angie were alone in the storytime room, just as he’d hoped. But now he was thinking their isolation was a mistake. A big one. Because privacy with her invariably made him behave in ways he couldn’t explain, ways that could get him fired. Hell, that could get them both fired.
And that wasn’t even considering the issue of bodily harm. He was going to crush her beneath him when he fell. He knew it already.
“I think if we do this according to the directions, it’ll work. The victim of cranial trauma—I mean, the participant”—she shot him a mischievous glance—“stands with feet together and eyes closed. The person getting crushed—I mean, the catcher—has one foot in front of the other, outstretched arms, locked elbows, and loose fingers.”
She frowned and tapped her chin with a finger. “When I say it out loud, loose fingers sound really perverted. Like they grab hold of every unprotected penis in town. Or like they’re going to cop a feel while I catch you—because they’re that promiscuous.”
If only. “Like you said, I’ll hurt you. No way.”
“Come on, Grant. Live a little. After all this buildup, I want to know if I can do it.” She began to stretch her arms and legs one at a time, an activity he watched with covert interest. “See? I’m preparing my muscles to catch over six feet of Grade-A man.”
He couldn’t help it. He preened a little at that comment. “Grade A?”
She snorted. “Stop fishing and start getting ready to fall.”
He took a good look at the pile of stuffed animals they’d arranged in the center of the room. Walking decisively toward it, he turned around.
“What are you—” she started to say, and then shrieked when he fell backward.
His body landed with a thump and a slight whoosh as the floppy animals compressed beneath him. The impact from the fall jarred him, but didn’t hurt. He cautiously moved his arms, legs, and neck. No pain. Good. The stuffed animals actually made quite a nice mattress, with the exception of the duck-billed platypus. What kind of kids’ toy featured a hard plastic beak? Clearly the work of a sadistic toy manufacturer. Yes, he supposed the animal hadn’t been designed to cushion falling adults, but it still seemed ill considered.
Angie dropped to her knees by his side, leaning over to cast worried eyes over his face and body. “Are you okay? What the fuck is wrong with you? I wasn’t ready to catch you yet!” Her fingers brushed his cheek, and his skin there burned at the touch. “Do you need me to get help?”
“I’m fine.” He sat up and adjusted the platypus. “Just trying to make sure you won’t get injured when we land on the animals. Turns out, we needed to turn the damn platypus’s bill downward. That thing is absurdly stiff.”
“That’s what she s—” She cut herself off. “Sorry. Forgot we were in a professional setting.”
He looked at the pile of floppy creatures beneath him. “Only if you interpret the word professional very loosely. Or you’re a circus clown.”
With Angie on her knees and him sitting, they were basically the same height. Her relieved face hovered only inches away from h
is. She licked her lips, and he felt his eyelids grow heavy. So close. If he moved a tiny bit more in her direction . . .
“Okay,” Angie said. “Enough stalling. Time to do this.” She got to her feet and extended a hand to help him up.
Hungry for any contact with her, he took her hand and got to his feet. He let her go only reluctantly, with a surreptitious last brush of his thumb against her palm.
Angie moved to face away from the pile of toys, positioning her body as the handout had advised. He walked a couple of feet in front of her and turned so she saw his back.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked the wall. “We can tell Tina you caught me, even if you didn’t. I don’t need a stupid exercise to prove I can trust you. I already do.”
Angie remained silent behind him for a long moment. “Shut up, put your feet together, and close your eyes,” she finally said. “Then fall backward.”
With a sigh, he did as he was told. After making a last little entreaty to the heavens—please don’t let me crush her—he let his eyes drift shut. He tilted backward, fully expecting to make an Angie sandwich with his body and the stuffed animals.
But then he felt two strong hands slam into his back, supporting him and keeping him upright. Had she truly caught him? What the hell? Slowly, she levered him back to his feet with a little grunt of effort.
As soon as he could support his own weight again, he swung around. “Holy shit, Angie,” he gasped. “Have you been doping?”
“No biggie. It’s all in the technique,” she said, looking extremely smug. “I’m not a delicate flower, either. Look at these guns.”
She flexed her biceps underneath that fuzzy green sweater and gave them each a kiss. And as strange as it seemed, that’s all it took for his cock to perk up a bit. Her display of strength just now . . . Christ, it was working for him. Yet another bizarre first for Grant Andrew Peterson.
He shook his head, trying to dismiss thoughts of lust and replace them with contemplation of the task ahead. The stakes had just risen. She’d supported his body weight with little evident effort. If he didn’t catch her, he’d look like the world’s biggest wimp. His male pride stood on the line.