Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
The sun has disappeared by the time Grant and I make it home. Christmas lights dominate the street, turning the block into a glimmering winter wonderland in hues of white, yellow, blue, and purple.
We wrestle the tree inside and set it up in the same rustic tin stand Dad picked out years ago.
After trimming the branches to make it look more uniform, I scrunch my nose at all of the needles on the floor and wonder who’s going to sweep them up.
Grant on the other hand studies his sap-sticky fingers, apparently amused by how they cling together then snap apart.
When his eyes lift to mine, awareness of how ridiculous yet adorable he looks warms my chest, but there’s a glint there I don’t trust. And for good reason it turns out—he stretches his tacky hand to me, going for my face.
“Don’t you dare!” I squeal, ducking under his arm.
He’s big and fast, but my aversion to getting messy puts some extra pep in my step. I slip away as his other hand darts out, grazing the air where my cheek was.
“That’s right boy,” I say. “I float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee. You ain't gettin’ any alley-oops on me.”
Grant looks utterly pained as he shakes his head. “You do know you mixed boxing and basketball metaphors, right? And that they don’t go together?”
I shrug. A sport is a sport.
“How about this—stop chucking out bricks.” Dad used to yell something to that effect at the T.V. It feels right.
Grant’s frown makes my stomach tighten. Maybe I pushed too far after he opened up in the car about his old career.
Then he lunges.
This time I’m not quick enough. He catches me by the waist, one arm locked around my back, the other hovering near my face. Up close, I see in addition to sap, it’s covered with lint and tree needles.
“Don’t do it, Grant” I plead, poking my lower lip out. “Please.”
“You shouldn’t have talked all that trash,” he says with mock menace, inching his hand closer.
Unable to bear the sight, I close my eyes tight. I’m at his mercy and accept my fate.
After a moment, his finger taps my nose then he stands me up.
I peek one eye open. “That’s it?”
He smirks down at me. “Consider it a warning. But keep with the bad terminology, and you won’t be so lucky next time.”
As ridiculous as it is, I’m really starting to like that smirk of his. The way his eyes shine playfully and the corner of his mouth lifts.
That same mouth that was on mine two days ago, as Grant has been insistent on reminding me.
I let out a shaky laugh as awareness of how close we are, and how much I want him to kiss me again, hits all at once. The faint scent of pine still clings to him, and warmth radiates off his chest. After our heavy conversation in the car, it’s a lot.
I’m not trying to run away, but I need a breather.
I clear my throat and take a careful step back. “Well, you’ve made your point. And now I’m going to get cleaned up. Who knows what you put on my face.”
He’s still grinning as I head for the stairs. “Probably a good idea.”
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do the same,” I say, feeling unusually giddy as I look over my shoulder and catch Grant’s eyes trailing after me.
After a quick shower, my mind is all over the place.
I turn over each and every one of our interactions for the past two weeks.
The more I think of letting our mutual attraction run its course, the more sense it makes.
And somehow, that realization makes me panic.
Wanting Grant shouldn’t feel dangerous, but it does.
Because wanting anything this much hasn’t ended well before.
I tug on the holiday pajamas Ivy gifted me and grab my phone. I don’t know what to do and need my twin to listen to me spiral, then assure me that whatever step I decide to take with Grant, I’ll be fine.
But the call goes straight to voicemail. I set the phone down, trying to fight the tightness in my chest.
I hope her and the babies are alright. The tree is up, and the house is almost ready, but none of it will matter if they’re not here come Christmas morning.
An unexpected knock at my door sets my pulse racing. Obviously, it can only be Grant, but this is the first time he’s come to my room. What could he want?
I block out the taunting voice in my head insisting he’s here to sweep me off my feet. That he felt the shift in the car just as much as I did and, being Grant, he’s not about to let up now.
Also being Grant, he’s probably here to ask if I’m fine with him finishing off the cookies.
But as I open the door, the first thing I note is how uncertain he looks standing in the hallway. Like he’s as nervous coming to my room as I am having him here. Then, I laugh.
He’s in the same red, green, and black pajamas as I am. And where my bonnet is black with a cheetah print band, he’s got a green durag on.
“Let me guess,” I say, trying to sound serious but a few giggles slip through. “Ivy had those waiting for you when you got here?”
“Yo, and here I thought I was special,” he says, all the while his eyes sweep slowly from my head to fuzzy-sock-covered toes.
“Right. So, what can I help you with?”
He holds up a plate of our shortbread cookies. “Dessert? I didn’t want to eat them alone.”
“You mean, you need a co-conspirator for your week-long sugar binge?”
He shrugs but a quick glance at the ground lets me know he’s not as confident as he’s trying to appear. “Someone’s gotta do it, and you’re the only one here so…”
That crooked smile of his should not affect me the way it does. And yet, I step back and grant him entrance.
I get the weirdest sense of Déjà vu when he walks in. It feels like I’m in high school having a boy in my room for the first time. Dad’s stern voice is in my mind, telling me to keep my door open, my bed empty, and my lips to myself.
“You can set the plate next to the lamp,” I tell Grant when he stops beside a box full of old books.
Once he turns, I do a quick scan around my room to make sure there’s nothing embarrassing out in the open. It's mostly packed up, aside from the old snow globes Dad and I picked together I lined up on my dresser.
There's a snow globe featuring a snow woman with a wig and pink scarf. A city square with shopping bags piled under a tree. A father and daughter building a snowman. They vary in size and shape, some glass, some plastic, and each one holds a place in my heart.
“What’s this?” Grant asks.
I look to see what he's talking about then rush to his side and snatch an old notebook away.
“What is it? A diary?” he asks.
“No. It’s a junk journal.”
Which is so much more than a diary. It’s an old notebook from high school full of drawings and ramblings, lyrics and pictures. Hopes and dreams from when I was young and bright-eyed.
Grant lifts an eyebrow. “That’s like a scrapbook of sorts, right? Destiny had a few of those. They were always full of things like ‘Boys Suck’.” He pauses then looks at me with eyes full of hope. “Can I see it? Please? I want to know what you were like when you were younger.”
I inwardly groan.
I miss the Eve I was two weeks ago who would have kicked this man out of my room with nary a thought. Because this Eve I’m morphing into wants to let Grant into the deepest parts of her.
“Fine.” I shove the book at him before I can change my mind. “But you better not laugh. If you do, I’ll never show you anything ever again.”
He wipes all traces of a smile. “Yes, Your Honor.”
He sits on the bed and opens the journal, and I have to interlock my fingers so I don’t snatch it right back up.
I found it the other day, tucked behind some books I figured Ivy would never find with her nosey self.
There’s nothing too juicy in there; however, knowing how dramatic I was as a teen, I can’t help but cringe as Grant’s large fingers flit through the pages.
I let his chuckle slide when he comes across my huge ALL BOYS SUCK spread. His smile is still there when he finds a photo of Ivy and me giving the camera our best ‘duck lips’ pose. But when he finds the zoomed in drawing of a snow globe, his face shifts.
“Tell me about this one.” He gently tugs on my hand, pulling me down beside him.
I swallow, looking at a pencil sketch of parents and their two kids standing in front of a modest house while snow flurries dance around.
“It’s the family I was supposed to have.
And, well, you know how well that turned out.
” I tug at my hand but quickly give up when Grant makes it clear he doesn’t want to let go.
“It’s not that good anyway. I’m pretty sure it was practice for an art entry I never ended up submitting. ”
“Why do you do that?”
I blink up at him. “Do what?”
“Try to make yourself smaller.” His frown deepens.
“You said you weren’t good at baking, but you made that amazing pie and these bomb cookies I’m about to demolish.
You talk down on your art like anyone off the street could have drawn it with as much detail and emotion.
And even now, you’ve turned Christmas into some kind of project that’s just for Ivy.
You don’t let yourself admit how much it means to you.
” His voice softens and eyes that see me too much don’t let up. “When do you get to enjoy the holiday?”
“When Ivy and the babies are here to enjoy it with me,” I answer automatically, though the words don’t land as firmly as I mean them to.
The air between us grows heavy. I don’t know what to think or say. I started this whole get the house ready for Ivy because I want her and the babies to have the perfect home coming. Ivy has had an incredibly difficult year without Dad.
But, I lost Dad too. I’ve been clawing my way through the same grief. Maybe I deserve to stop and taste the cocoa instead of just stirring it the same way he would have. Maybe I need to let go of the guilt of not being by Ivy’s side and let a little joy back into my own life.
My gaze drops to Grant’s hand still wrapped around mine. Maybe that joy is within my reach, closer than I would have thought.
“Okay, time for your initiation,” I say, needing to bring some lightness back.
“Initiation?”
“We’re watching The Best Man. You had way too many questions during Best Man Holiday, so it’s time to get you caught up. Knowing the lore is required for staying in the Matthews household.”
“Don’t you mean Matthews-Simmons household?” he teases, easily picking up where our playful mood left off.
“Yeah, yeah.” I move to the edge of the bed, making room for Grant to get comfortable. “Grab the cookies.”
As the movie plays, I can’t help sneaking glances at Grant—cataloging his laughter at the jokes, the way he scoffs at the messy love triangle reveal, how he mutters, “Nah, he’s wild for that,” under his breath.
The more he reacts, the more I find myself relaxing, and leaning into his warmth.
So, when he wraps his arm around my shoulder, I let myself sink into him.
Grant was the last man who held me, and his embrace is just as comforting now as it was at the wedding. Better even.
I wrap an arm around his middle, snuggling in deeper and letting his scent wash over me. I’m surprised that the mix of soap and pine clinging to him smells even better than the Christmas tree itself.
“Thanks, you smell amazing too,” he murmurs. “Like frosted berries and vanilla. All I’ve wanted is to stay close to you and breathe it in.”
I realize I said that out loud, but my eyelids are too heavy for me to take it back or even be embarrassed.
I manage to tell him, “Don’t let any crumbs spill on the sheets,” before falling into a cozy sleep.