Chapter Thirty-Seven Rae
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Rae
GRANT’S SEATED AT HIS desk when I race into our office late the next morning. He’s perfectly put together, while I look like I’ve been rolling in Cheerios. Which isn’t all that far from the truth, to be honest.
“Good morning.” I sidle by his desk, going for nonchalance—no small feat, considering what we did here last night.
“Rae.”
Unclear on whether that was a greeting or an attempt to get my attention, I breathe in, steel myself, and look straight at him. “Grant.”
He frowns. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’ve got…” He motions at his temple. “Something… Right…”
I run my hand through my hair, finding nothing out of the ordinary. I struggle to do the same on the other side, but can’t quite make it with my left arm full of the clean, folded laundry that Otty’s swinging by to pick up.
“Whatever. It’s fine. I’ll get it later.”
“Don’t move.” Wearing his patented look of long-suffering exasperation, Grant stands, makes his way over to me, and picks something out of my hair.
I get a little woozy at his clean soap smell and immediately flash back to last night when that stern face was literally buried between my legs.
I work hard to concentrate on his closely shaven Adam’s apple while he picks through my curls, his expression going from blank to annoyed in a matter of seconds.
“The hell is this?” He holds something out, his grimace remarkably close to the one my nephew Devon wore this morning when I tried to feed him his oatmeal.
“Um.” I glance down at the piece of gook he’s holding out and then immediately back up. “It’s either toddler food… or possibly toddler vomit. Take your pick.”
The disgust I expect doesn’t make an appearance. Instead, Grant goes to my desk to snag a few tissues and returns to wipe first my hair, and then, after what feels like a pretty superfluous May I?, a stain on my sweater.
“That might be cereal.”
His mouth tightens at the corners.
“I didn’t know you had kids.”
“What? No. No, I… not me. They’re my sister’s.”
“Ah.”
“Two of them got sick last night. And then she got sick, so I went over to help.”
“Is she a single parent?”
“Might as well be. Schaffer travels.”
Another nod as he rids me of the laundry I’d been holding and tugs my bag from my shoulder. “Sit.” He pulls out my chair, and I automatically comply, sighing the second I land. I watch him set my bag on my desk, open the closet, and slide the pile of clothes onto a high top shelf. “Coffee?”
“Oh, I’ll make some. Just give me a—”
He tugs off my trench coat before urging me, firmly but gently, back into my seat. “Have you had your coffee yet, Rae? You look exhausted.” He hangs my coat up.
“I’m not…” At his skeptical look, I give up all pretense and flop back. “I didn’t sleep.”
“At all?” He sinks to his haunches, putting us eye to eye.
“Who knows? An hour? I tried. But there was so much throw-up to clean. I’m not good with gross things.”
“You should go home.”
That makes me sit up straighter. “Absolutely not. I’m fine. I’ve got meetings today. And performance evaluations to get out to department heads, the retreat to finalize, and—”
“Stay there. I’ll be right back.” With a sigh, he pushes up to standing and walks out.
I put my things away, fire up my computer, and pause when my feet hit something under my desk. “What the…?”
It takes me a second to recognize it as one of those ergonomic footrests I’ve been eyeing online. The adjustable wooden kind, no less. Way out of my price range.
“Cream and sugar?”
“How’d you know?”
One side of his mouth kicks up in a smirk. “Given the pumpkin spice affinity, I figured I’d be safe dumping in lots of both.”
“No. I mean, how’d you know I needed a footrest?”
“You swing your legs.”
“I do not.”
“Rae,” he says in the same benevolent, takes-no-bullshit tone I’ve heard Hannah use with her boys more than once, “we both know you’ve got your feet in midair while you wiggle around on that sweet, round butt all day. Now, maybe this way, I won’t have to spank it again to make you stop.”
And just like that, I’ve lost every one of my core executive functions.
“What?” he asks. “Am I wrong?”
I manage a tiny headshake.
“What’s that?” he whispers.
“No. You’re not wrong.”
“How is your”—the tiniest of smirks—“backside, by the way?”
His words send warmth curling into my abdomen. My thighs squeeze together. “It’s fine.”
“Good.”
I wait, breath bated, while his warm gaze travels all over my face, lingering briefly at my mouth, before returning to my eyes. He’s going to kiss me. And I can’t think of a single reason I shouldn’t kiss him back.
My eyes find his mouth, gravity pulls me forward… and he stands up.
“Good,” he repeats. Nodding, he swipes one hand over his face, turns away, and then back to me, before finally returning to his desk.