He nods. “You got it. Come on.”
Grant leaves the room, but an outline of his shape in the doorway remains, imprinted on my eyes. The world suddenly feels larger again, unfamiliar and wild, but also safer than it has in days.
I pick up my purse and shove my phone in it, then follow him to the front door, where he’s putting on his coat. He holds out my cardigan, and arm by arm, I slip into its warmth. I meet his eyes, giving him a genuine smile for the first time today.
He nods back. Apparently, a smile isn’t quite in his emotional vocabulary.
I chuckle. For a moment, I almost forget the context of this situation. Isn’t that odd? The closer I stand to Grant, the safer I feel. Still, he isn’t quite a white knight from the storybooks my mom used to read to me.
But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m in need of a little rescuing right now.
5
* * *
Emotional Battlefield
Ana
When Grant dropped me off at my car, he insisted on waiting with me until I was tucked safely inside, despite the fact that Jason’s car was nowhere to be seen. He asked me what I was going to do with the rest of my day, and I assured him I would be perfectly fine. After a little convincing, he let me pull out of the parking lot of my building, then followed me out, his car trailing closely behind mine for the first mile or two until he turned away toward the training facility.
It’s strange to think that Jason and Grant will be skating across the same ice today . . . especially after the look in Grant’s eyes when he saw the bruise on my arm.
I’m crossing my fingers that nothing dramatic happens at practice today. That’s the last thing I need right now. More drama.
I waved confidently to Grant as he drove away. But now, sitting behind the steering wheel of my ten-year-old Nissan Altima, I really don’t know what to do with myself. I told Georgia I wouldn’t go to work, but it’s a quarter to nine, the start of my workday, and I still have plenty of time to get there. My anxiety is getting the better of me with every passing minute.
Truth be told, I really need to do something with my hands today. Plus, now I’m faced with the very real scenario in which I have to move out and begin paying rent, solely on my less-than-ideal salary. Jason and I had worked out a fair enough payment plan where each of us paid a certain proportion of our salaries . . . well, before he started gambling. Then everything went off the rails.
Jason.
Will he come to the spa? He’s done it before, as the whole hockey-following world now knows. By now he’s probably at the training facility . . . and no doubt he’s seen the news report. He wouldn’t risk it, right? Jason may be a lot of things, but he’s not an idiot.
By the time I pull into the hotel parking lot, I’ve convinced myself. Jason won’t come to my place of work unless he plans to leave in handcuffs, not to mention that he’ll most certainly get kicked off the team for walking out of practice. He cares about his hockey career too much to do something like that.
The look on Georgia’s face when I walk through the front door is one of pure shock. She mouths to me, What are you doing here? I only smile back and give her a weak thumbs-up. She shakes her head at me, clearly appalled at my choice to put myself out here in the open like this.
I want to assure her that everything is okay, but we’ve already welcomed our morning appointments. That doesn’t stop Georgia from sneaking a glance at me every so often. Probably looking for bruises.
But the day crawls by, just like any other. Jason never makes an appearance, no drama ensues, and the world keeps spinning. By the end of our shifts, Georgia and I are smiling and laughing, as if today were just a normal day. As if Jason had never stepped into my life.
An alarm on my phone reminds me that I’ll need to take out Hobbes soon, or he’ll definitely ruin that beautiful wool rug in Grant’s living room. Since Georgia took my last appointment of the day, I have just enough time after work to pick up some groceries.
Grant’s kitchen is gorgeous and much more modern than mine, but there isn’t a lot of food. Everything in his fridge seems strictly devoted to protein fueling and meal prepping, understandable for an athlete on a strict schedule. I’m already inconveniencing him enough; I don’t want to mess with that.
At the store, I pick out the essentials for my favorite meals, gathering the ingredients for lasagna, pork chops, stir fry, tacos, and meatloaf. In the produce aisle, I hold my phone limply, debating whether to text Grant and ask if he has any food allergies. I decide against it, remembering how annoyed Jason would get if I texted him while he was busy at practice.
But Grant isn’t Jason, is he? Grant is kind, and thoughtful, and reserved . . .
I find myself smiling, somehow knowing that, regardless of what I buy today, Grant will take it in stride. At least I know he’s not vegetarian or vegan. Those omelets he made were freaking fantastic. My mouth waters at the thought, and I hear my mother’s voice in the back of my mind, chirping, Don’t shop on an empty stomach, Ana! You’ll walk away with the whole store. I look down at my cart load of groceries and frown. Whoops.
Once everything is paid for, I load the groceries into the trunk of my car and take the freeway back to Grant’s condo. Before long, I’m struggling to open his front door, two paper bags full of food threatening to spill onto the nice, carpeted floor of the hall. The door swings open and I gasp, nearly losing my balance and toppling across the threshold. Grant steadies me with his strong hands on my shoulders.
“Hey,” he says, giving me with a perplexed look. Hobbes jumps up, putting his little paws against my knees with a cheerful yip. Grant reaches for the grocery bags before I can object.
“Hi! Oh, thank you.” I let Grant take both bags from me, suddenly empty-handed in his threshold. Kicking off my boots, I shake my head with a small smile creeping across my lips. Will I ever get used to this level of chivalry? Doubtful.
“This is a lot of food,” he says matter-of-factly as we trek toward the kitchen, Hobbes close on our heels.
I begin unpacking the cold foods, pulling out the produce and frozen meats first. “It’s the least I can do. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to make the meals while I’m staying here, as a thank-you for letting me stay. For everything.” Why does my voice sound so high-pitched?
As I lean into the fridge, making room for the new groceries, Grant seems to mull over my offer for a moment. Too bad. I’ve already made up my mind, mister!
Then I wonder if he’s right. Maybe this is too much food, and buying it implies that I plan to mooch off of him for longer than he anticipated. I feel my resolve slip, ever so slightly.
“It’s not that much,” I say weakly. “We’ll get through it quickly. And you can keep whatever we don’t get to when I find somewhere else to stay.”
Grant’s eyes flash, and my breath catches. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and I take a deep breath.
“I’m sure we’ll get through it all. I have a good appetite,” he says with a nod, then leaves the kitchen and heads down the hall.
Suddenly, I’m annoyed. Would it kill this man to crack a smile? I decide that’s the goal for tonight. I will make Grant smile with whatever food I whip up for the two of us. Right after I—