“Neither. Will was just my date. And he’s super nice, but I don’t know how compatible we are. And Grady…I just…I don’t think anything will come of that.”
“Hey, don’t count your chickens,” Kate says.
“I’m not counting on anything.”
“Well, don’t just dismiss them either.”
“Kate, seriously?”
She shrugs. I hear someone speaking in the background, and she sighs. “I gotta go, but text me when you finally grow some lady balls and talk to him.”
“Who?”
She stares into the camera. “You know damn well who. Later.”
She hits end, and I sit there staring at my phone.
It’s then that I see I have a string of text messages.
Will: Thanks for taking care of me last night. Sorry again for ruining our evening. I’ll have to take you for a proper dinner to make it up to you.
Quinlan: Glad you go home safely. You didn’t miss much. The party started winding down after you left.
Grady: Glad you’re home safe. Do you like sushi?
I grin at his random question.
Me: Yes.
I’m surprised when the three little dots pop up telling me that he’s responding.
Grady: Dinner. Tonight. 7 pm. I will pick you up.
Me: (eye-rolling emoji) Two problems with that. One, I have reading to do for class. And two, even if I didn’t, you don’t know where I live.
Grady: You underestimate me. You have to eat, and you can do it with me. And two, you think I didn’t cyberstalk your ass after last night?
Me: Oh, so now you’re a stalker and a manwhore?
Grady: You have no idea what I am, but you can start finding out at seven.
Me: Seriously, I really do have to study.
Grady: And you will after you eat dinner with me.
I sigh. He’s not going to let this go. So, I cave.
Me: Fine, but I have to be back by nine.
Grady: Is that when you’ll turn into a pumpkin?
Me: That was her carriage, not her.
Grady: Same difference.
Me: Totally not the same.
Grady: We can debate that over sushi. See you later.
I toss my phone on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. What have I just agreed to?
My phone rings and I see it’s my mom.
“Hey,” I answer, knowing full well that if I don’t, she will just keep calling.
“Hey! How was it?”
“Great. I’m going to have lunch with Andy Westin and Blythe Daniels.”
“Wow! That’s amazing, darling! I’m so proud of you!”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“So, tell me all about it.”
I get up and put my phone on speaker as I make myself a coffee and tell my mom about my very strange night. I leave out many of the Grady details other than him driving us to the hospital. By the end, Mom is gushing over my evening. I tell her it’s really not that exciting. I’m relieved when she gets another call and has to go.
I sip my coffee and turn on my computer. If I’m going out later, I need to get some serious work done now. But, as my laptop rears to life, I pull up a search engine and type in Grady’s name. I hit enter and begin to scroll through every detail I can find. I try to tell myself that I’m learning more about Blythe’s son so I can talk to her, but even I can’t fool myself, I’m curious about the man that I loathed the first half of the evening and then came to respect the second half. I stare at a photo of him, remembering his face next to mine in the ER last night. His eyes are…beautiful. And he’s…well, he’s gorgeous. Everything about him is gorgeous.
And there goes the day. I am beyond sucked into every detail the Internet gives me about Grady. As a teenager, he began racing, following in his father’s footsteps. Then, when Ken Daniels was killed in a horrible collision in a race, he abruptly stopped. It’s around this time that he started Monumental Mistake with Rhett and Max. There are many photographs of him with fans, both from racing and music. And, of course, red-carpet events, some with his mom, some with supermodels, and a few with a female pop singer. From what I can tell, he’s only had two long-term relationships or at least only two that the paparazzi covered.
When I look up, it’s already three in the afternoon. I sigh and close my Internet browser. Time to study.
Chapter Ten
Two things strike me about Grady as I open my door to find him looking impossibly sexy. One, the man can dress. Two, what they say about rock stars is totally true. His mere presence is so masculine and sexy, he could look like my creepy neighbor Rich and I’d still want to date him. So, why doesn’t he date more often? And what’s with this asshole persona he keeps? My journalism background begins to spin into overdrive.
“You should take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he says with a smirk.
I realize my mouth is gaping, and I quickly shut it. “Sorry, I…you…I’m ready,” I stammer as I grab my purse and shut my door. He laughs but doesn’t say anything else as we walk to his car. I’m surprised when he follows me to the passenger side and opens my door.
“Wow, chivalry isn’t dead,” I mutter.
He grins. “I can be a gentleman.”
I raise an eyebrow, and he smirks again as he shuts the door. I watch him walk to his side, each step full of the confidence that normally oozes from him. Had he not opened up at the hospital last night, I’d have never believed that he could possibly be anything but a cocky musician.
“I hope you like sushi,” he says as he starts the car and pulls out of my apartment complex.
“You are in luck because I do.” I decide to wait to show him how much I like sushi. It’s not often that I can totally shock someone, and right now, I feel like I need the upper hand in some aspect of this so-called date.
“Music?” he asks.
“Sure.”
He turns on his car’s sound system and I’m taken aback to find him listening to Crowded House.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a fan of this group,” I admit.
“I guess you’d be wrong, then,” he says as he glances over at me. “People peg me as a lot of things, Emma. But most of what they know is just a made-up façade.”
“You keep hinting about that. But I’ll be the judge of your so-called ‘holier than thou’ self.”
He laughs. “OK. Noted.”
He pulls up to a Japanese restaurant that I’ve been to before and I grin. Not only do I know the menu, but I also know most of the staff.
I open my own door before he can get around the car. He waits for me to exit and then places his hand on the small of my back as we walk inside. I want to roll my eyes at the cliché gesture. But I decide to play it cool and ignore it.
The hostess sees me and says hello. She’s American, but the sushi chef is not, and when we are seated at the sushi bar, he comes over to me.
And that’s when I go full-on Japanese. I greet him and place my off-the-menu order in fluent Japanese before turning to a very shocked Grady.
“Do you know what you want?”
“I…uh…I like tuna,” he manages.
I laugh. “I’ll order for you. I know just the thing.” I rattle off some options to the chef, and he goes about making our rolls.