“I already took the dog out,” Grant calls from the bathroom. “You can take your coat off.”
I frown, looking down at Hobbes. He wags his tail, happy to have my attention, blissfully unaware of the upheaval our lives have been thrown into.
“Thank you!” I call back. I chuckle to myself, watching Hobbes roll around on the hardwood floors like he’s a puppy again. He really loves it here, the little traitor.
I hear the shower start in the bathroom and a sensation of warmth floods over me. Perspiration forming on the back of my neck, I take off my jacket and return it to the front hall closet. It’s nice to have someone else walk Hobbes for once. It’s been my sole responsibility for the past three years that I’ve had him. Lord knows Jason never volunteered. Another point for Grant.
With these odd but pleasant thoughts brewing, I begin dinner. Lasagna is a no-brainer; it’s quick and easy and always a winner, as long as you don’t overcook the noodles. I start the sauce, letting it simmer while I arrange fresh ricotta and lasagna noodles in a glass baking dish that I find in a nearby cabinet.
Once the sauce meets my standards, I finish assembling the lasagna and place into the pre-heated oven. Within minutes, the kitchen is warm and fragrant.
I’ve pulled my thick hair up with a heavy-duty hair tie into a loose bun on top of my head. Based on my reflection in the glass of the window, my cheeks are red, so I grab a glass of water to cool off.
My ears perk up as I finally hear the steady stream of Grant’s shower halt. I can’t help but be amused by the length of his shower—I’ve been toiling away in here for at least a half hour. I guess when you have a body like that, one so big and bulky, you need more time to wash.
And here I am again, thinking about a naked Grant. I down the rest of the water in three choking gulps.
When he reappears, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, I’m coughing pretty violently.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his brow furrowed in that classic look of worry he wears so well. His skin is rosier than it usually is, no doubt from the scalding water raining down on his flawless skin . . .
“Wrong pipe,” I say, wheezing as I wave away his concern. Thank God he put some clothes on. I definitely wouldn’t have recovered if he’d come out in a towel.
“It smells great. Can I help?”
I’m struck speechless for a moment by the good-natured tone of his voice before I nod and point to the salad bowl resting near an assortment of vegetables.
“Cut the rest of the tomatoes and cucumbers?” I say when my voice returns.
As Grant gets right to work, I’m impressed with our ability to cohabitate this space as practical strangers. We dance around each other with ease, Grant moving between the sink and the counter, and me checking on the oven’s contents after adding frozen garlic bread and setting plates on the dining table.
I hear the pop of a bottle of wine being uncorked, and turn to see Grant pouring two glasses of a deep red cabernet.
He’s a wine drinker. Huh.
“Dinner won’t be ready for another fifteen minutes,” I say apologetically.
Grant shakes his head, passing one of the wineglasses to me. When he extends his arm, I notice a nearly imperceptible wince flicker across his expression.
“There’s no rush,” he says, his voice tight with the effort of masking pain.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my healer’s instinct making me reach out involuntarily to feel his shoulder.
I quickly retract my hand, suddenly aware of a line being crossed. My impulse is always to help, and my expertise is touch, but I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable by disregarding his boundaries. Luckily, Grant seems to think nothing of it, merely rotating his shoulder in small, focused circles.
“It’s nothing,” he says with a short sigh. “I . . . knocked my shoulder on the ice today, and it’s still feeling pretty sore.”
Grant doesn’t seem like the type to go down easily. My twisted imagination takes me down the darkest path, imagining a certain dick-headed teammate slamming into his unsuspecting team captain in foul play.
“Okay, drink that,” I say firmly, pointing to his untouched glass of wine, “and then lay down on your stomach.”
“What?” Grant’s eyes go wider than I’ve ever seen them.
“I’m going to help you loosen up, speed up the healing process,” I say, my gentle voice practiced by years of massage therapy. “You’ll see that I’m very good at this.”
“It’s really fine,” he starts to object, but I’m already on my feet, gesturing for him to get into position.
He needs a massage, and I’m determined to help him in any way that I can. After he’s been so accommodating to me, a shoulder massage is no trouble at all. I try not to think too hard about the excitement brewing low in my belly, my fingers aching to touch this man who seems to be made entirely of firm, yet supple muscle.
He gives me another uncertain look.
“Come on, we don’t have much time before dinner’s ready. I promise it won’t take long.”
Grant’s expression changes to one that’s half amused, half frustrated. He tosses back a significant gulp of red wine and huffs a little before laying his long, lean body across the couch cushions.
From this perspective, I have a good view of his broad shoulders, which taper into his sinewy back and down to his trim waist and muscular butt. The man is fully clothed, but something about the fit of his cotton shirt and sweatpants makes me feel like I’m spying on something entirely indecent.
It’s strange that I even notice since Jason has the body of an athlete too. He’s tall, five foot eleven to my five foot two. But Jason’s midsection was soft—a dad bod, he liked to joke. There’s nothing soft about Grant, though, and he towers over me at a solid six feet, four inches.
“Do your worst,” he says grimly, his cheek squished adorably against the soft fabric of the couch.
I lean my hips against his for support, one leg curled up next to his torso on the couch and the other hanging off the edge, my toes tangled in the wool carpet. I won’t straddle Grant, although that would give me a much better angle to work from . . . that would be crossing a line. With soft hands, I lightly rub his shoulder, focusing on the sore trapezius. I know how firm this guy is, but I’m still surprised when the muscle doesn’t budge under my touch.
“You’re very tense,” I say, my voice low. I work my hands into a deeper, more meaningful press, eliciting a strangled moan from beneath me.
“Fuck, Ana . . .” Grant groans, his eyes fluttering closed.
My cheeks warm even more at the way my name sounds from his lips, his voice deep and guttural. His body remains tense beneath my fingertips, and the warmth of his skin permeates mine. My mind races with thoughts of having my hands on his body, his whole body . . .
Oh my God. What the hell is wrong with me? I need a distraction, fast.
“Do you have any family here, Grant?” I ask, my voice strained.
“No, not anymore.”
“Why’s that?”
“I grew up in Northern California with my adopted parents,” he murmurs, his voice filled with something like . . . trust.
I’m pleased that he’s sharing such personal information with me, because I have a strong feeling that he doesn’t share information about his past with a lot of people. I didn’t know he was adopted. It occurs to me that Jason definitely doesn’t know either, so this isn’t information Grant shares, even with his teammates.