11. Grady
CHAPTER 11
GRADY
Spencer has fallen asleep next to me in the passenger seat. It must be true about what they say, that if you want kids to fall asleep on a car ride, get them McDonald’s fries. Spencer finished hers about five minutes into the trip back to Heartwood and it was only another five before her head was lolled to one side, mouth open. That pretty little mouth. What I would do to that exquisite mouth.
She rouses as we turn off the highway and the vehicle slows through the exit.
“Have a nice nap?” I ask as she lifts her hand to her mouth to check for any drool.
“What time is it?” she croaks, her voice groggy.
“Ah, almost five,” I answer. Spencer looks around, a little disoriented.
“I’m fucking starving,” she says, and I bark out a laugh.
“Starving? You just ate.” I remind her of the ten-piece chicken nuggets and fries she slammed back as we left the mall earlier.
“That was almost two hours ago. And now I’m hungry,” she says.
“Okay, okay. Fair enough.” I do a quick shoulder check and flick on my signal, turning onto the road that leads through Heartwood and toward the campground. We drive through town once again, and the sight of the Urban Ember sign makes me bristle as we pass by.
When we reach the familiar long winding road, I keep driving until we come to my driveway, and I hang a left. I could make that turn with my eyes closed.
“What are we doing here? Aren’t you taking me home?” Spencer asks. She knows where we are. She’s been to my place before. I admit that I have ulterior motives for bringing her back here. If she gets to have her multi-phase plan, I get to have my own—my multi-phase plan to win over Spencer Sinclair.
“I’m going to make you dinner.” My statement is firm, no room for debate. I don’t know exactly when I decided that I wanted to win her affection beyond just a casual hook-up. It was sometime between the moment I flung open the curtain and saw her standing there in that gorgeous dress, and the moment she let out a soft snore in the passenger seat. Spencer is both an unattainable goddess and so very human that I have an insatiable need to protect her.
“I have food back at the camper,” she protests.
“Cup O’Noodles isn’t a proper dinner.” I put the car in park on the drive and get out before Spencer can say anything else. She doesn’t put up more of a fight. Instead, she gets out after me and follows me up to the front door.
I hesitate a moment as I open it and step back to let her inside. The moment is reminiscent of the first night that Spencer stayed here. The one that has lingered with me, making me wish it had gone differently. Wish I hadn’t waited to kiss her then. The ghost of missed sexual opportunities past, still haunting me. Maybe had I not hesitated, things between Spencer and I could be different, and I wonder if I missed a crucial window to evade the friend zone.
Minutes later, Spencer is seated at my kitchen island, sipping on a glass of red wine as I prepare one of my all-time favourite dishes for her—a chicken sausage orzo with spinach and sundried tomatoes. The room fills with the warm fragrance of garlic as I add it to the sausage cooking in the pan.
“You’re such a natural in the kitchen,” Spencer says. I wipe my hands off on the towel I’ve thrown over my shoulder, place a lid on the pan, and turn back towards her. I shrug.
“I do own a restaurant and bar,” I say with a chuckle. “And I grew up cooking for my brothers. Had to learn at a young age. There isn’t much in town in the way of take-out, so I made do with what I could find at the grocery store,” I explain. Her shoulders slump slightly.
“All I had growing up was instant noodles,” she admits. “Not just instant noodles, but easy stuff. Things I could throw in the oven on my own when my mom wasn’t home, which was often.”
Her words grab at my heart, thinking about her alone, making herself a sad frozen meal. The fact that she had to fend for herself so young.
“Do you want to help me? I’ll show you some things,” I offer, though I say it somewhat selfishly, wanting to give her a reason to come around to the other side of the island, wanting to be close to her. To not have this barrier between us.
“Okay. But I have to tell you, I really have no idea what I’m doing.” She rounds the kitchen counter, sweeping her crimson waves up into a ponytail as she nears me. I gesture to the onion I have set out on the cutting board.
“We can start here. Ever diced an onion?”
Spencer shakes her head, her brows knitting together. I hand her the end of the knife, but as she takes it from me, I hold my hand over hers, guiding it over the onion that I’ve already roughly chopped in half. “It’s easiest if you cut it in half first, and then just make small slices.”
She nods, and I remove my hand from hers, watching her follow my instructions.
“I feel like such an idiot that I don’t know how to do this,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh.
“You’re not an idiot, Spencer. Far from it.”
“I mean, I don’t have a university degree or anything. Isn’t this what they teach you in university?”
“No, you have to go back for a master’s degree in chopping onions,” I deadpan, earning myself a laugh from Spencer that warms the kitchen more than my cooking ever could. She throws her head back when she does it, and it rests on the soft spot between my shoulder and my peck where I’m standing behind her.My heart quickens, thundering against my ribs.
“Careful, watch.” I turn her attention back to the knife she’s holding. “Don’t cut yourself.”
She goes quiet again and continues cutting it like I showed her. The only sound she makes is a sniffle, though the fragrance isn’t particularly strong.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Someone’s cutting onions in here.” She gives me a wry smile that doesn’t quite reach her watery eyes.
“Boo. Bad joke,” I say with a playful nudge of her arm. I move towards the stove again, adding it to the pan with the fragrant garlic, and drizzling some more oil over it.
“I like how you do that.”
“What?”
“Make me feel like I’m not stupid for not knowing something.” My lungs hollow out at her statement. At the fact that having someone be patient with her, not make her feel less than, is somehow a foreign concept to her.
“It’s not hard. You’re not stupid, Spencer,” I say, regarding her across the kitchen. She’s quieter than usual as she considers my words. No quippy remark at that. “So, you never filled me in on phase two of the plan,” I say, shifting the topic. I lean on the edge of the counter with both hands. Spencer’s eyes dart towards my forearms as they flex. I love when I catch her looking at me like that. It gives me a shred of hope that I still have a chance with her.
“I don’t think you’re going to like it based on how you reacted to the suggestion earlier.” Spencer returns to her barstool and gulps the last of her wine down. I instinctively reach across the counter and grab the bottle to top off her glass.
“Try me,” I say. “I’m feeling more open-minded now.”
“Okay.” Spencer hesitates, searching for just the right words to position her suggestion. “I really think it would benefit you to revamp the bar, just a bit. Not an overhaul, but elevate it a little.”
I take it back. I’m not that open-minded. The thought of changing the Whisky Jack makes me grind my molars together. I made the bar the way it is for a reason. The whole point is that it’s not elevated. It’s accessible, it’s for everyone. It’s how I honour my dad in the only way I can.
“The Whisky Jack has always done well here,” I explain. “My customers like it just the way it is.”
“That’s because they’ve never had anything else,” Spencer says, and I hate to admit that she has a point. Sure, there are other places to eat in Heartwood, but they aren’t quite the same as the bar. “I hate to even go here, but if you don’t win against Carter and he manages to push through the motion to open Urban Ember, you will need to rebrand it anyway just to compete.”
“I need time to think about it,” I say, but I know time is something that we’re running out of, and fast. If we want to do this, it needs to happen quickly. I pivot over to the stove, turning my back to Spencer as I dish out her food.
“Just don’t take too long,” she adds, like I need reminding. I hand her the bowl of steaming orzo and sausage and bring my own over to sit on the barstool next to hers. She takes the first bite, blowing on it carefully before putting it in her mouth. Her eyes roll back as she savours the flavours of the herbs.
“See,” she says, pausing to finish her bite. “This is the kind of thing you should include on the menu. This is incredible. Instead, you just keep slinging burgers.”
“Well, I don’t sling the burgers. Doug does that. And everyone loves a burger and a beer.”
“I’m not saying you have to get rid of your burgers. Just add a few more options to the mix. We could redecorate inside so that it feels a bit fresher. Keep the homey, cozy vibes, but bring in some nicer decor. More whisky bar, less dive bar.”
I mull it over as I work on my bite of food.
“I want to show you something, and you can’t get mad,” she says, reaching down to her purse to pull out her phone. She opens her social media page and clicks on a picture I didn’t know she had snapped. It’s a great shot of the hand-carved wooden sign that hangs above the door of the bar. But it’s not the picture she wants to show me. She clicks on the first comment, and when she does, a whole lot more open up with it. “Just read through some of those.”
My eyes skim through the comment section and my heart drops. Remarks like ‘ Heartwood is such a cute spot, wish there were more places to eat ,’ and worse, ‘ I liked the Whisky Jack, just seemed kinda dingy .’
They go on and on, listing reasons why the Whisky Jack didn’t satisfy them the way they thought it would have.It feels like a kick in the balls. All the work I put in to try and make people feel comfortable at the bar, and this is what they really think.
“Fuck. Reading them all laid out like that, it’s kind of brutal,” I admit.
“Sorry.” Spencer apologizes even though it’s not necessary. It wasn’t her who wrote those things. “I thought you should see it for yourself.” I release a breath through tight lips.
“Let me hear your big plan,” I say, but Spencer looks distracted suddenly, her eyes glazed over and zoned out on her phone screen. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” She clicks the screen off and sets it down on the counter in front of her. “Just my mom. She wanted to inform me that she’s booked herself in for a boob job.”
“A boob job? I can’t imagine that anyone related to you should ever need to get work done. Not that anyone needs to get work done …” I backtrack.
“I know what you meant,” Spencer reassures me. “She doesn’t need to get work done. She never has. This is the thing with my mother. She picks all the wrong guys who treat her like trash, and then she assumes that it’s something wrong with her. Now with my father about to marry someone twenty years her junior …”
“She’s feeling a little insecure.” I finish Spencer’s thought right as her phone starts to ring on the counter in front of us. The name Marla pops up, along with a photo of her that is the spitting image of Spencer. The same red hair, the same green eyes and gorgeous smile, just thirty years older and a little more botoxed.
“Hey, Marla,” she answers, and I can just make out her mom’s voice on the other end asking if the service is better now. “Yeah, I can hear you. What’s up?”
They sound almost identical, raspy in the way that makes my toes curl when Spencer says my name.
“Don’t ever get married, Spencer. I swear to God. It will only make you miserable. And that’s before you get divorced. It’s even worse once he runs off with some hussy and trades you in for a younger model. That’s all men care about, I swear.” Her voice is a faint buzz against Spencer’s cheek, but I make out most of what she’s said and cringe. Spencer doesn’t miss my visible wince at her words.
“Don’t worry about me, Mom. I’m not planning on getting married any time soon. It’s hard to get married when I’m not even dating.” I wince again, and this time she doesn’t seem to catch it, thankfully.
“Good. Did you get those pictures I sent? Dr. Bloomfield wanted some inspo pics for my new boobs.”
I can’t be certain, but I could swear I heard her say she sent Spencer pictures of boobs. I’m praying she said boots , and that Dr. Bloomfield is a doctor in the same way that Dr. Scholl’s is a doctor.
“No, I haven’t looked yet,” Spencer says, her voice flat, tired. “I’ll let you know what I think of them later.”
“Okay, just text me back with your favourite.”
“Will do. Bye.” Spencer puts the phone down and stares at me. “Want to look at pictures of boobs with me?”
I choke on my beer.
“For your mom? No thanks. Just leave me out of this one.”
“I may not have a degree, but at least I’m not overhauling my boobs for a mediocre husband. I can get by with my looks for now. Although, my thirties are approaching rather quickly.” She says it as if getting older is a bad thing, like aging is something to be avoided. I don’t know how to tell her that aging is a gift. That, as someone who lost their mom young, I wish I could tell her how precious every passing year is.“These wrinkles are getting deeper by the day.”
Spencer goes back to eating, and it’s silent between us for a moment before I decide that I can’t let that statement go. My fork clanks on my plate as I set it down.
“You are beautiful, Spencer. I would be willing to bet anything that even at a hundred years old you’ll still be turning heads. You would certainly turn mine.”
“You aren’t the first to tell me that, Grady. Most of the guys that want to get in my pants tell me I’m beautiful at one point or another. They don’t mean it. Even if they do, my looks will fade. It happens to everyone. Then what will I have going for me?” Spencer dips her chin, dabbing her mouth with her napkin like that’s the reason why she’s refusing to look at me. It’s crushing. How could this gorgeous, incredible woman not see in herself what everyone else does—what I do? She’s stunning, but she’s so much more than that. I turn on my stool to face her.
“You have more to offer than your looks, Spencer. University degree or not,” I say.
Her gaze is still fixed on her dish, but I need her to look at me.I need her to know how much I mean it. Half a second after Spencer sets her napkin down on the counter, I grip the seat of her stool and swivel it, pulling her in so that her legs are positioned in between mine. I try not to think of her thighs grazing mine as I stare into her eyes which are wide with surprise.
“I’m not talking about your looks,” I say, my voice lowering an octave. My eyes flick down in time to see goosebumps forming on Spencer’s arms, and it’s so fucking satisfying to see her have a physical response to me. “I mean, of course you’re stunning. There’s a reason that I’m so fucking attracted to you that I can barely hold myself back from you even now.” I clear my throat, past the lump that’s forming there. “You’re beautiful because you’re strong, you’re witty, and smart. You grab life by the balls and make every fucking day count. You are not a tornado, Spencer. You are a whirlwind. You’re passionate and fierce, but you don’t leave destruction in your wake. You leave people better than they were before, their lives turned upside down in the best way possible.”
I speak the words that Spencer needs to hear, the ones I can no longer contain in my heart. Suddenly, she’s leaning forward, her hands on either one of my thighs, and she’s kissing me. Her lips are salty as a tear escapes and trickles down her cheek, but I don’t wipe it away. Her tongue finds the crease of my lips and parts them. She tastes sweet and tangy from the wine. I let myself get drunk on her.
Soon, we’re both standing; Spencer on her tiptoes and me bending down to meet her. Our lips are more desperate now, and our hands roam each other’s bodies with urgency. I’m tempted to lift her into my arms and cart her off down the hall to my bedroom but …
“What about the rule? One night. Your boyfriend ban.” I pull away, breathless. I’m hoping for an answer I know I’m not going to get. All I want is for her to say, ‘Screw the boyfriend ban.’ I want her to say that she doesn’t care about it. I’m hoping it’s one of those flexible rules, like the other two boundaries we’ve already crossed.
“The boyfriend ban is only a problem if you want to be my boyfriend,” Spencer rasps.
It’s as though the air gets sucked out of my lungs, the feeling of disappointment crushing. I can’t say anything more, because now she’s lowering herself to the floor and unbuckling my belt. My mind slows, words refusing to form. By the time I have an inkling of a response, Spencer has pushed my pants down around my ankles and she’s parting her lips around the head of my already hard cock.
And now the only word I can think of is fuck.
Spencer takes more of my length, her lips wrapping around me while her tongue flicks the sensitive underside of my shaft. I brace one hand on the counter to steady myself, and one hand wraps around Spencer’s ponytail, pulling it firmly.
“God, you have no idea how many times I’ve imagined fucking your mouth.”
Spencer lifts her eyes to meet mine while she sucks deeper, longer, my head touching the back of her throat. She watches me, my hips bucking in response, her eye contact intensifying the sensation of her tongue on my cock.
I thought I had seen the extent of Spencer’s beauty today in that store, but here, on her knees, she is a beauty not of this world. I would do anything to be worthy of it, of her.
She keeps her mouth around me, and hums. She fucking hums. The vibration at the back of her throat makes my knees buckle, just about careening over my edge. Before I find my release, I’m hauling her up off the floor, kicking my pants off, and lifting her off the ground.
“I wasn’t finished with you!” she cries as I carry her down the hall to my bedroom.
“I’m far from finished,” I say, tossing her on the bed. “But all I could think about back there is how I missed the taste of your perfect little cunt.”
I remove Spencer’s bottoms as she swiftly removes her top, baring her breasts to me. She wastes no time climbing over me as I lie back on the bed. She straddles my hips while she rolls her nipples between her fingers. Spencer throws her head back and lets out a moan as she rocks her hips on my hard length.
“I told you, Spencer, I want to taste you,” I remind her, my voice lowering as I rasp. “So come here and sit on my face like a good girl.”
Spencer does as she’s told, maybe for the first time in her life, and positions herself over me, hovering over my mouth.
“Sit,” I growl, pushing her hips down, my tongue finding her slit. Spencer jolts forward, the sudden sensation causing her to lose her balance until her hands find the edge of the wooden headboard. She steadies herself, and her body slackens, using the leverage to rock her weight between me and the bed. I let her find her rhythm, and then I match it, using my tongue to provide counter pressure on her clit.
Spencer moans as the repetitive motion brings her closer to the orgasm I can feel building. Her eyelids become heavy with ecstasy, fluttering as the rest of her face slackens.
“I’m going to …” she cries, and the sudden release wracks her body, her core tightening, her body shaking. I catch her in my arms before she falls, and lower her onto the bed next to me. She comes to rest next to me, the tension leaving her muscles, and I bring myself on top of her.
I kiss her once, twice. My mouth is tender on hers as she catches her breath, and I slide myself into her tight opening, still pulsing.
I gave her what she wanted from me, an orgasm and nothing more. But that’s not what I want. I want Spencer to feel how badly I need her, how being with her is the single most important thing to me. I’m going to show her how it feels when I look her in the eyes and make love to her.