4. Hannah
HANNAH
Later that night, I’m at the dinner table with Abby to my left, next to Pops, and Sawyer’s empty seat to my right.
“We should have sold the farm while we had the chance.” Rachel hands me the mashed potatoes, and I spoon a portion onto my plate before passing them to Abby.
“We can’t possibly consider selling now. Not now that we’ve been threatened,” I add.
“We don’t know that.” Rachel stabs a sausage with a fork and attacks it with her knife, cutting it into bite-sized pieces.
“Come to the dinner table!” she hollers at her son, then resumes our conversation without missing a beat. “The police report isn’t conclusive. It could have been the storm.”
With Sawyer’s sausage dealt with, she turns to Liam on her other side and spears his sausage.
“No!” Liam pulls a grumpy five-year-old face and grabs the sausage. “I want a hot dog.”
I pass Rachel the plate of bread, and she slaps a slice on Liam’s plate.
“The insurance payout is more straightforward if it’s storm damage. If it was intentional, then they’ll do their own investigation, and if they think one of us did it…”
“What? Why would they think that?” I pour gravy on my potatoes and pass the gravy boat to Abby.
“I’m just saying—Sawyer, dinner, now!—insurance companies will look for any excuse not to pay out. If they think we vandalized our own business, they could deny the claim.” She shrugs. “It sucks, but it happens.”
Sawyer comes barreling into the dining room, his curly hair bouncing wildly.
“There’s a man outside.”
The words steal the air from my lungs. Across the table, Rachel’s face drains of color, mirroring my own fear.
Pops shoves back his chair. “Get the shotgun.”
I grab a rolling pin from the kitchen on my way to the window. My heart’s racing as I lean over the back of the couch and peel the curtain back.
The yard is dark, the only light trickling out from the windows of the house. The kids’ play set casts a deep shadow, big enough for a man to hide behind.
“Where did you see him?” I ask Sawyer.
“In the car.”
My gaze darts to the driveway and sure enough. Parked where the drive curves so it’s parallel to the road is the dark shape of a pickup. In the front seat is the shape of a man, a large man, whose profile I’d recognize anywhere.
“Grant.”
I slide off the couch and put the rolling pin back on the kitchen counter. The kids are peering out the window, and Rachel shoos them back to the table.
“Who’s Grant?” Pops has his shotgun in one hand and a box of shells in the other, which he’s trying to load with shaking fingers.
“He’s my…” bodyguard, hot soldier, the man with the big hands I want to feel on me? “…friend,” I choose.
Rachel snorts and Pops, sharp as ever, glances at her and then to me.
“He your boyfriend?” he asks.
“No.” Heat surges up my neck, and I head to the kitchen for a glass of water so no one sees my blush.
“Then what’s he doing on my property?” Pops finally slides a shell into the chamber, and Abby makes a move to get it off him. He ignores her efforts.
“He’s her bodyguard,” Rachel chimes in. “He’s sworn to protect us all since the cafe got vandalized.”
“Hah, you admit it was sabotage.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll admit that if you admit you like Grant.”
She raises her eyebrows expectantly. I’m not going to admit to liking Grant.
He’s had plenty of opportunities to ask me out, and he hasn’t.
Even when I flirted with him, wore a low-cut top, and hinted I liked the food at Pizza Feast. Nothing.
I’m certainly not going to admit to liking a man who doesn’t reciprocate my feelings.
Besides, I’m attracted to him. I wouldn’t say I like him.
“Anyone want more potatoes?”
I sit down at the table and offer the dish around, hoping to bring normality back to the dinner.
Rachel smirks. “Thought so. But if I had a Green Beret waiting out in the dark for me, I would not be in here eating mashed potatoes.”
“He’s ex-military, is he?” Pops leans the shotgun against the wall and Abby quietly squirrels it away and out of the room. “Where did he serve?”
I think back to the conversations with Grant over the past few months.
They’re very few. Mostly he comes into the cafe, orders, then sits and reads for a while.
Sometimes I’ll pour myself a coffee and take my break with him.
He asks me questions about myself, the cafe, the farm, and my family.
But I realize I know very little about him.
“I’m not sure. West Africa, I think. He doesn’t talk about it much.”
“He doesn’t talk at all,” Rachel chimes in.
“Hmmm.” Pops takes his seat at the table, and Abby quietly removes the box of shells. “Well, don’t leave him out in the car. Invite him in.”
I almost choke on the mouthful of mashed potatoes. “What, in here?”
Pops glares at me. “We didn’t raise you to leave a veteran out in the cold. Especially one who’s looking out for my girls. We’ve got plenty of food. Go bring him inside.”
I try to picture Grant sitting around our dinner table. The silent, brooding ex-soldier wedged between trigger-happy Pops, smart-mouthed Rachel, and Sawyer and Liam, who seem adorable right up until bedtime, when meltdowns become a competitive sport.
The image is so absurd I almost laugh.
“I’ll set another place.” Abby pushes back her chair.
If I invite Grant into my house, I invite him into the chaos that is my family.
I hate to admit how much I’ve enjoyed his attention on me in the cafe, where I’m confident and it’s my domain.
The thought of having him in here is terrifying.
But Pops is right. I can’t leave Grant out in the cold.
I’m not sure how long he’s planning to sit out there.
The least I can do is serve him a warm dinner.
A moment later, I’m pulling my coat around me as I approach his pickup. Grant sees me coming and steps out of the car.
“Everything okay?”
He has stubble on his chin, and his clothes are rumpled. I wonder how long he’s been out here. “You don’t have to watch over the house, you know.”
“I know.”
His gaze flicks to my lips and back to my eyes, and I wish I’d run a comb through my hair or at least checked that I don’t have gravy on my face.
“Pops wants to invite you in for dinner.”
He takes a step toward me, and I suck in a breath. He’s so close I have to tilt my head to see him.
“How about you? Do you want to invite me in?”
My heart’s beating against my chest so hard he must hear it, and my knees feel like they might give out. What is it about this man that makes me giddy whenever he’s close? The feeling is disconcerting, and I do what I always do. Deflect. It’s safer than admitting I like him.
“I suppose we should feed you. If you insist on following me around,” I tease.
His lips tug up in a small smile. “I insist.”
That small smile affects me more than it should, and my breath hitches. His gaze darts to my lips and I think he’s going to kiss me, but then he steps back and cold air rushes in between us.
“Lead the way.”
I spin around and march to the house, unzipping my coat to let the cool air calm my heated body.