Chapter Fifty-Eight Rae
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Rae
GRANT, WHO HAS LITERALLY been forced into coming to the retreat, looks unhappier than I’ve ever seen him. Comically unhappy, actually.
First was the ride here. Ninety minutes in a converted school bus. I miss Sam so much. She should be here, dammit, screaming out “Kumbaya” with the rest of the crew. Not Grant scowling in the back like he’d rather be getting a tooth pulled.
Grant. Ugh. I am… conflicted.
It was obvious from the glimpses I got from my front-row seat that he hated every second of the trip, from the X-rated but alcohol-free game of truth or dare being played in the back of the bus, to sitting next to Doreen, who probably told endless stories about her married gay son—a point of pride—and his three children, for whom she is constantly knitting things.
We’ve been here for less than half a day of bonding activities, and Grant looks like he’s seriously considering murder. I’d laugh if I didn’t feel so raw about everything.
I tried calling Sam about eighty times yesterday. Finally, this morning, I woke up to a text telling me she loved me, and she’s fine, but she needs some alone time. Alone time? Sam?
I want to cry.
Then there are the death glares the others are giving Grant.
They hate him, and I feel kind of… bad about it?
I mean, he’s only done his job. Could he have done it without making some enemies along the way?
At this point, I honestly don’t think so.
I want to cry about that too, a sentiment I have no desire to explore further.
At least it’s pretty here. The lodge is essentially a castle surrounded by cabins on a mountain west of Charlottesville, close to the national park. Outside is a forest and a small lake, and inside, there are literal suits of armor and fireplaces you could roast a wild boar in.
I love it. The very best part is that I don’t have to lift a finger now that we’ve arrived. The venue’s event planner organizes almost every second of the time we’re here.
It’s after dinner, and we’re all sitting around in this gigantic ballroom. I feel Grant’s eyes on me, but every time I look up, he’s talking to someone or watching someone else.
Maybe it’s just wishful thinking. Because, yeah, despite everything, I still like him.
I really, really like him. I like how serious he gets and how warm he can be.
I like the low, fierce, constant burn of his presence.
His confidence. The steady way he watches me, the solidity of him.
He’s a good man. And apparently, good does things to me.
He’s also competent and solid with an underlying layer that warns, Watch out. Anything can happen here.
So yeah. I might be a little too into him for my taste. Or probably for his.
Yet again, I’m staring, and yet again, he looks up, and I tear myself away, only to meet Dorothy’s openly curious gaze. When she winks, I roll my eyes, groaning inside.
“Hot potato!” squeals the organizer, Trish. She’s very enthusiastic. In a good way, mostly.
We circle up, and I turn to see Grant beside me. We share a quick smile, and my insides melt.
The game’s fast and hilarious, and at least two people fall. Grant passes the ball to me, and I catch it and feel his hand on my hip. I just barely manage to pass it along to Doreen, and through all the commotion, somehow Grant’s hand gets forgotten, and it stays right where it was, on my hip.
A second. A few more. I don’t look at him right away, but when I finally glance up, he’s watching me with this intensity that turns everything inside me liquid. I’ve got no idea how long we stand there, his hand on me, my eyes eating him up.
It takes Trish screaming “Talent show!” to snap us out of it, and when that happens, I look around and wonder how long we’ve been lost in our little bubble because hot potato’s apparently done, and everyone’s clearing out.
I’m in a dream as I follow the sound of Trish’s voice. Like the others, I’ve already been so programmed to follow her orders that I immediately move. “Now, every single one of you is scheduled. So let’s not get behind, shall we?”
First up, Klaus lumbers onto the tiny stage and blows us all away with a very brisk soft-shoe performance.
“Next! Remember, everybody goes! Nobody skips it. I’ve got you all on my list, and I know your talents, people.” Yeah, Trish is frightening.
It’s a long night, featuring such amazing talents as Dorothy’s bizarre crying baby imitation and one of the younger guys spinning a pen over his knuckles for a solid minute. By the time my name is called, I’m ready to present the very rare talent that Trish convinced me is worth sharing.
I sit on the edge of the stage and apply lipstick with my toes to a loud round of applause. I can be a bit of a show-off like that.
Grant, of course, goes last, and I have no idea what to expect. What’s obvious is that he’s not thrilled to have to step up onstage.
Trish hands him a microphone, and someone plucks a few chords on the piano, and then—holy shit—Grant opens his mouth and sings the first line of “My Way,” like the gruff, stern Sinatra the world didn’t know it needed.
I am floored. We all are. For the first time all night, every single person here is utterly silent, and a lot of those who’ve spent all day glaring at him suddenly soften.
Such is the power of a good song. I know this in the depths of my soul.
I know it when I think about Mom and the way she’d sing me to sleep before my sisters were born.
When I remember Dad singing us all out of some of the deepest, darkest moments of our lives.
This man is a triple threat. And I don’t mean in the usual theater way of act, sing, and dance.
That would be my dad. No, the problem here is that Grant is kinky, smart, and he can sing.
My father would love him. Okay, not the kink part, per se, but the musical part?
There is literally nothing my family loves more than karaoke.
Their one biggest disappointment is that I am tone deaf and can’t sing my way out of a paper bag.
This man, however, with his low, rich voice, could sing the pants off… well, anyone here, judging from the expressions on most of their faces.
My skin breaks out in goose bumps as he croons about approaching the final curtain, and then—good lord what witchcraft is this?
—he ups the tempo and intensity, and something happens in my chest and my throat, and I am so close to crying again that I have to get up and leave before I do it in front of everyone.
I hear the thunderous applause through the hallway wall, and all I can think is, No. Please, no.
But it’s too late. Obviously. I wouldn’t be hiding here behind a suit of armor, crying into my hands, if I didn’t feel this way about the man.
And when I say this way, I’m pretty sure it’s more than like. Or lust. Or kinky curiosity. Yep. I’ve finished falling, and I am solidly in love with a man who’s got no interest in the long term.
So basically, I’m screwed.