Chapter 13
13
TESSA
The text from Grant came five days after we set up the Christmas lights—five days after we’d returned to Grant’s house afterward and had sex on his cool marble countertops.
Grant: I was hoping to exploit your talents to my benefit.
I stared at the text, not sure what to make of it. My mind filled with so many dirty and delicious possibilities, but I wasn’t sure that was what he meant, and texting such things hardly qualified as keeping a low profile. The man worked with his father for chrissake.
Tessa: Do I get any more information than that? I’m very talented.
He sent a laughing emoji and I smiled. I never thought of Grant as a big laugher, but I could picture him laughing now. It’d be a low chuckle that rumbled in his chest.
Grant: Am I interrupting anything? One of my patients today was a third grader and he told me school ends at 2:50.
I glanced up at the clock. It was 3:10 now, and I was sitting at my desk, a pile of papers in front of me. I’d happily take home papers to grade if it meant chatting with Grant, though.
Tessa: I have to grade a math test, but it’s nothing that can’t wait
Grant: I’m excellent at math. Perhaps if you help me I will help you grade your papers.
I stared at the screen, looking for a hidden clue that would tell me if we were talking about sex.
Tessa: You still haven’t said what “helping you” entails
Grant: My parents got home from vacation today, and my mother was very upset.
Tessa: About what? Did something go wrong?
Grant: I went wrong. Apparently every year my father puts a bunch of Xmas decor around the office, and I didn’t do that while they were gone.
Tessa: None of the nurses or receptionists did it?
Grant: It’s a thing my dad always liked to do, so everyone assumed we were waiting until he came back. Even I assumed he wanted to do it.
Tessa: But he doesn’t?
Grant: God only knows. My mother said something about me taking over the office traditions.
Tessa: Okay. How can I help?
Grant: Gillian showed me where the Xmas decor is. There are four boxes of it and I have no idea what to do.
My thumbs hovered over the screen as I considered a response, but Grant’s next text came in before I could reply.
Grant: You don’t even have to do work. You can sit like a queen and tell me what to do.
A laugh bubbled up my throat but died just as quickly as I pictured all the things that text could entail. I glanced up at my classroom door as if someone might enter and realize I was in the midst of dirty fantasies about the local doctor. I tried to think of an answer that wouldn’t sound like a double entendre.
Tessa: I’ll help you. What time should I come by?
I was holding my breath, waiting for the answer to this question. If I knew anything about Grant it was that he would never betray my desire for privacy, but did that mean he intended me to sneak over to the office late at night? The ellipsis scrolled, and I stared at them intently.
Grant: I have patients until 5:15, and then I need a little time for paperwork so I don’t get too far behind, but I can probably be free by 6:30. Is that too late?
Tessa: That’s fine, but when will you eat?
Grant: It’s no big deal, I’m used to waiting to eat.
Tessa: What if I bring dinner with me?
Grant: I don’t want to ask you to do that.
Tessa: We don’t have to do the polite-dance like our moms do. I’ll bring food. I know you don’t have allergies, but are there foods my mother serves that you secretly hate and never tell her?
He sent another laughing emoji.
Grant: I’m not crazy about Paisans Pizza, but I really will eat anything.
I sent back a wide-eyed emoji.
Tessa: My mother orders Paisans for parties all the time!
Grant: I’m a grown man. I won’t die from one evening with food I don’t like.
Grant was the kind of guy who said the wrong thing so often, and I bet almost no one knew just how incredibly thoughtful he was.
Tessa: I’ll bring dinner. No Paisans. 6:30
Grant: Paisans really is okay.
In person I would’ve cut off his sentence before he could get the whole thing out, but even while texting my demand came quickly.
Tessa: I told you not to polite-dance with me. It’s okay to not like something
Grant: Yes ma’am.
The Italian restaurant I ordered from was down the street from the Duprees’ office, so I parked between the two and walked to both, figuring I’d draw less attention that way. If my car was in the little Dupree Family Medicine lot, it was likely to be noticed by people.
The door was unlocked and I let myself in, looking around the half-darkened space. I’d been a patient of Grant’s father, Richard, since I was a kid, which meant I’d been inside this office more times than I could count, but it felt different when it was empty. “Grant?” I called, wandering deeper into the office until I bellied up to the receptionist’s desk, but I heard nothing. “Grant?”
I stood for a moment, waiting, but Grant didn’t come out and it was clear no one else was here. I pulled out my phone, but the thing I liked best about being around Grant was how comfortable I felt with him. It was why I didn’t want him to fall into the “polite-dance” trap. And if I didn’t want him worrying about politeness all the time, I had to do the same, so I hefted the dinner bags a little higher and opened the door that led to the exam rooms.
It was even darker back here, but I could see a light shining around the turn, so I headed in that direction. Near the end of the hall, a single light shone, and I followed it until I stood in the doorway of Grant’s office.
His head was bowed over his desk and his black waves were beginning to fall out of their tidy style, though they were too short to reach his forehead. He wore a lavender button-down with the top button open, revealing a tiny slice of golden chest I secretly wished to put my lips on. “Hey,” I said quietly, and he started, looking up at me with wide eyes in the moment before a smile tilted crookedly on his lips.
“You’re like a ninja,” he said, standing up from behind his desk and stretching his arms overhead. The move was not intended to be sexy, but I already had sex on the brain, and it looked pretty great.
“A ninja who was yelling your name the whole time,” I joked.
“Were you really? I’m so sorry. I was engrossed in what I was doing. I didn’t mean to be an asshole.”
I swallowed down the impulse to tell him how much I liked finding him bent over his desk, his brow tight in concentration. Those thoughts were not in the spirit of our rules. They were let’s keep him thoughts when what I needed were let’s get him out of our system thoughts. “No apology needed. I found you, and I have dinner.” I held up the bag in illustration. “Where to?”
Grant stepped away from his chair, taking the bag and setting it down at the edge of the desk before looking down at me. “Right here,” he replied, “but first—” He cupped my cheek, tipping my head up and slanting his lips over mine. With each drugging kiss I relaxed into him, sinking further and further into his embrace, eager to lose myself in his lips.
Like every time, in the seconds after the kiss I was perfectly content in his arms, unhurried to leave. And maybe the only thing that ever pushed me up and out of his embrace was the image of my sisters, noses curled in unconcealed hatred at the very sight of Grant Dupree.
“Sit,” Grant said gently, pulling close one of the two chairs that sat opposite his. “Let me clear the desk.” He clicked a computer shut and shifted it, along with a couple papers, to the credenza behind him. I pulled a bevy of foil containers from the bag.
“You like Il Sogno?” I asked as I set a paper plate in front of each of us.
“I love Italian.”
“Excellent. I went with safe choices—pasta primavera and a cheese lasagna. And there’s bread, of course,” I added, pulling each item from the bag and laying them on his desk. I passed each of us a paper plate as he began to open the containers.
“Sounds delicious. Thank you.” Grant settled into his office chair once all the food lay open between us. “You’re here as a favor. Can I at least pay you back for dinner?”
“Nope,” I said, smiling serenely at him as I served myself some pasta.
“Can I pay next time?” he asked, and I bit down on one lip. I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about next time. I was supposed to be getting Grant out of my head.
“Of course,” I replied, because who was I kidding? There would definitely be a next time, and I would look forward to it.
“So, what kind of decorations do you have?” I asked as we took turns serving ourselves and began to eat.
Grant grunted but his lips tilted into a smile as he looked up at me. “Give me five minutes before I have to think about Christmas decor. Tell me about your day. How was school?”
I shrugged. “School was school. The three weeks before winter break are always hard. The kids just get so excited.”
“You teach fifth grade, right?“
“Yeah, fifth.“
“Do they still believe in Santa in fifth grade?“
I shrugged. “Depends on the kid. I think most don’t, even if they say they do, but in fifth grade it’s almost a taboo subject. No one brings it up except the one pain-in-the-ass kid every year who wants to make fun of any kid who might still believe.”
“Did you believe in fifth grade?” he asked, swiping his bread in a dollop of sauce and taking a bite. I watched his strong jaw—currently absent of all beard—flex with the bite and had a sense memory of him biting down on my shoulder. Had that been real, or were my fantasies getting frighteningly vivid?
“No. Emily sat me down on my ninth birthday and told me. She said she didn’t want kids making fun of me.”
He let out a hiss of air. “Emily is really intense.”
I smiled. Emily may seem that way from the outside, but I knew better. “A little, but only because Em feels like she has to be our protector. I’ve always known—my whole life—that Emily would have my back the instant I needed her. She’s ride or die, ready to hold a grudge for eternity or mete out justice as needed.”
Grant grinned, his eyebrow winging up. “That’s terrifying.”
“I find it sweet.”
His laugh was low and rumbling. “You’re not on the wrong side of her vendetta.”
“True,” I conceded with a smile. “I’ll try to chill her out next time I see her.”
“Can I ask—why is she upset with me, anyway? She doesn’t know about us, does she?”
“No, of course not,” I replied hurriedly.
“I didn’t think so.” His brow twitched. “And I’d like to think…well…I hope I haven’t wronged you in any way.”
I leveled my eyes on him. “Of course you haven’t wronged me. I like spending time with you.” The words shouldn’t have embarrassed me, but I felt a hot blush spread across my cheeks. The last thing I needed was for Grant to know how very much I liked spending time with him.
“Good. I do too.”
“You should tell me about the decorations,” I said, eager to change the subject.
“I should,” he agreed, “but you haven’t answered my question.”
I tensed, hoping he wasn’t asking any questions about my feelings.
“Exactly why does Emily hate me? I was thinking about it at Thanksgiving dinner, and I couldn’t come up with any reason besides us. I was wondering if you secretly told your sisters and they didn’t approve.”
This was a bigger conversation than I’d intended, and I sighed. “Most recently, Emily and Claire disliked you hitting on Claire when she came home for the wedding.”
“Do they know your mom was pushing us together? It wasn’t my idea. I mean, I was stupid to go along with it—I should apologize.” His words came out in a jumbled flood, his brow knit tight, and he looked at me, hard and frowning. “Do you understand? Going along with your mom was a mistake, because I wasn’t interested in Claire. The night of the wedding, you weren’t some consolation prize, Tess. You were the woman I couldn’t keep my eyes off—the woman monopolizing my thoughts. You still are.”
I looked down at the food. There were words I couldn’t say—feelings that had to be kept secret so he could never hurt me with them. Because handing my trust over to Grant completely seemed insane. His dating history was questionable, and he only took an interest in me after being publicly rejected by my sister—my much prettier sister. And even if I often felt ready to risk my stupid heart on him, doing so in front of the town and potentially letting everyone see how naive and pathetic I was remained low on my list. Still, his eyes were locked on mine, and I nodded.
“This is a terrible idea,” he grumbled. “I should obviously be avoiding you—getting you out of my head—but all I wanna do is show you how much I want you. It’s a dangerous game, Tess.”
Words failed me, and I stared at Grant, wide-eyed and blinking, probably looking a right idiot, until he said, “My dad always puts a Christmas tree in the waiting room right by the windows.”
“An artificial one or a real one?” I asked, accepting the subject change gratefully.
“He used to get a real one, but last year I had us buy an artificial tree so I could turn the lights on and off remotely. It seemed safer.”
“Okay. We can put that together first.”
“We can put it together second,” he said. “After we eat.” He scooped a second helping of pasta onto his plate and broke off another slice of bread for each of us.
Grant made one final swipe over his plate with a hunk of bread, taking a single bite before abandoning the remaining bread on the plate. Then he stood, stretching his arms over his head and leaning back once more. His shirt was no longer crisp, but it was still neatly tucked into his dark pants, and my eyes scanned greedily over the long lines of his body while his face was turned upward and he couldn’t see me. “You ready?” he asked.
The question was more politeness than actual query, since I’d crumpled my napkin on my plate many minutes before Grant was done eating. “I’m ready,” I replied. “Show me this tree.”
Grant walked and I followed, back down the hall and past the four bins of decor he’d referenced before. He walked right back out to the waiting room, twisting the lock on the exterior door. It seemed silly to continue following, since the waiting room led nowhere except out, so I leaned against the doorframe that separated the room from the hall we’d come down. “Gillian didn’t bring out the tree. She said it was unwieldy,” he explained, sticking a key into a door just to the left of the fish tank. I’d noticed it before, but never even stopped to wonder what was inside. Now I knew. Grant pulled out the long box that held the tree and I began to move the chairs that typically occupied the space in front of the window. Though I didn’t make a habit of visiting the doctor, I’d been here enough times in my life to remember the basic holiday set-up. “You don’t have to move those. I’ll get them,” Grant protested.
“Don’t be silly,” I replied. “You get the tree open. I can handle a few chairs.” He did just that, pulling out the chunks of tree and beginning to build the bottom layer. A few minutes later, I joined him. “Did you used to help set this up when you were a kid?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, jiggling the middle section of the tree until it clicked unceremoniously into the section below. “I never loved Christmas the way most kids do.”
My nose scrunched in distaste. “You don’t like Christmas? Why on Earth not?”
Grant shrugged a shoulder as he lifted the top third of the tree and I attempted to line up the connectors. The motion made the tree bob. “It felt like contrived magic.” The tree made its final click and I looked up to find him squinting thoughtfully into the distance. “The things I found beautiful and magical about the holiday were never what other people loved, so I learned to keep quiet about them.”
He began mindlessly straightening the limbs, and I couldn’t help but ask. “What did you find beautiful?”
“My dad would make these big boot prints out back, pretending to be Santa, but I loved the side of the house where the snow was white and perfect and untouched.” He was still squinting as if he could see into his memories, and I watched him from the corners of my eyes as I began the process of straightening limbs on the bottom-half of the tree. “My brother always wanted to catch Santa, but I didn’t. I set an alarm for four in the morning every year—after the presents were put out but before anyone else was awake—and I stood and looked at the pile of gifts. I didn’t care which were mine, I just liked to see them all. This probably all sounds crazy,” he said, his eyes narrowing on me.
“No, just a touch neurotic,” I replied with a grin.
“I’ve always thought Christmas was beautiful, but it gets covered up in a gaudy display of lights and sounds and toys. I like simplicity.”
“I think I like gaudy,” I admitted.
Grant cocked his head. “Do you? Well, perhaps I can see things through your eyes this year,” he suggested.
I shrugged. “Or you could decorate the office in a way you think is beautiful.”
“I don’t want my dad to be disappointed.”
I smiled widely. “That’s why you invited me. You keep it classy and I’ll make sure it’s just tacky enough for all your patients.”
Grant laughed. “Deal. Let’s go see which box has lights in it. I like the ones that are only white.”
He glanced at me as if expecting me to balk at this proclamation, but I nodded instead. “White’s my favorite, too.”
We spent the next hour stringing the tree and hanging an assortment of ornaments on it. I’d been unsure when I’d pulled the first ornament from the box—it was a triangle of faded green construction paper embellished with pasta shapes. There was nothing elegant about it, but Grant looked up with a smile that was small and genuine. “Ethan made that,” he said.
“It’s hideous,” I said, the words gentle. “Is it okay if I hang it up?”
Grant’s smile only deepened. “Absolutely. That entire box is filled to the brim with ugly ornaments. Most were ones me and Ethan made, but some were given to my dad by patients. “One—” he paused, scooting across the floor to sit closer and peer inside the box. “One was made by a patient for me. Last year.” Grant poked around the box for a moment, then came out holding what appeared to be a popsicle-stick piano triumphantly. “This one.”
“Do you play piano?” I asked, easily able to imagine his long, nimble fingers stroking the keys.
“No,” Grant replied.
“Oh.”
He laughed. “You look disappointed.”
“I'm not disappointed,” I lied, but he only laughed harder, as if my lie was completely obvious to him. “But why would a kid make you a piano if you don’t play?”
Grant rotated the ornament in his hand, his gaze reverential. “We both like classical music,” he explained.
“Oh,” I replied, sure there was more to the story I wasn’t hearing. It wasn’t like Grant owed me his deepest secrets, but I couldn’t help but be curious about him.
His booming laugh pulled me from my thoughts. “You’re stone-cold, Tessa.”
“What?” I asked, drawing back in surprise. “I am not.”
“I just mean, I figured a teacher would understand how sometimes an ugly popsicle piano can be the best thank you.”
“Of course I understand that,” I replied, taking the piano from his hands and hanging it at eye level. “I just didn’t imagine you felt that way about—” I shrugged, at a loss for words. “—popsicle pianos.”
For an instant his smile faded, then brightened into the wider grin I recognized as fake. “Perhaps you don’t really know me.” My eyes lingered on the curve of his lips, but that smile was an act, and I wondered if I’d hurt his feelings.
I straightened the little piano, not because it was crooked, but because I wanted to look away. “That’s fair. I’m enjoying getting to know you, though.”
I peeked back and Grant had moved closer, cupping my cheek with one hand, his thumb sliding against my skin tenderly. I leaned in, eager for his touch, his kiss, but he pulled back, and when his eyes darted to the window I remembered why. We stood in the open, the windows to his waiting room overlooking busy Crescent Street. Fortunately no one was around.
“I’m sorry,” we said almost in unison. My lips twisted wryly. “Let’s get the rest of these hung,” I said. “You can show me other ones you like.”
It was funny, to feel like I knew so much about Grant when really I had so much to learn about him. Did he like to read? Draw? Make music? Had it been his dream to own the practice? Those were just some of the questions that crossed my mind—things I still needed to learn about Grant Dupree.
There were things I did know, though. He was close to his parents and his brother, despite the age difference. He often said the wrong thing, and was in the habit of smoothing those transgressions over with a sexy smile. It wasn’t his real smile, though. His real smiles were smaller and more private, because he was a tremendously private man. Thoughtful but passionate, cautious but never shy. Those were the things I knew. Well, those and that when his mother put out watermelon he ate a ridiculous amount.
“Were you excited to finally come home last year?” I asked as we strung white lights around the waiting room windows.
“Excited?” he asked, and I recognized his stalling tactic. It usually meant he was choosing his words carefully. “Coming back to Bridgeport wasn’t my original plan.” The words surprised me, and I frowned as he rushed to add, “I’m glad I came back, though.”
“Are you?” I asked cautiously as I hopped down from the ladder and turned to face Grant.
“More so everyday,” he replied quietly, and though he clearly intended the words as a compliment, I couldn’t help but think of their subtext—he liked me, but didn’t want to be here.
“Did that sound romantic in your head?” I asked as I hefted a half-empty bin onto my hip and swung open the door that separated us from the exam rooms.
Grant picked up the other three boxes in a tidy stack and followed me, a hard crease marring the center of his forehead. “I usually hear something offensive as I say it, but I didn’t hear anything wrong with that. I simply meant I like being around you,” he explained needlessly.
“It wasn’t offensive,” I replied sharply, setting down my box. He piled his on top, eyeing me skeptically.
“Then why are you offended?”
“I’m not—” I began to protest, but all the words that had lined up in my head, ready to flow from my lips, were lies. I huffed out a heavy breath and reconsidered. After all, Grant was temporary. Just because I was doing a bad job getting him out of my system didn’t mean I could start thinking of us as long term. Hell, maybe Grant leaving Bridgeport was the best possible scenario. “I just hadn’t realized you didn’t like it here. I always assumed you came back home because you loved it and planned to stay.”
“I like how much you like Bridgeport.”
“I don’t—” I protested feebly, but he interrupted me almost immediately, stepping closer.
“You do, and I like it.” He shifted so close we might’ve touched. All I would’ve had to do was arch into him, and I wanted to, but I remained steadfastly against the wall, looking up into eyes that shone almost turquoise under the dimmed fluorescents of the hallway. “I’ll bet you have a memory on every corner of this town. It’s what you like best, I bet.”
“So do you,” I replied, my back coming off the wall enough to sway toward him slightly.
“Here and there, little things,” he acknowledged. “But I never found myself caring until recently.” His face dropped an inch closer to mine.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice only a breathy whisper through parted lips.
His lips pressed mine for a brief second and I wrapped my arms around his neck, attempting to tug him closer as he said, “I’ve walked through this hall a thousand times—” I found his lips again, and the second half of his statement was swallowed up in my kiss. Grant let out a small hum and wrapped his arms around my waist, locking me to his body.
I didn’t know how long we stayed like that, but each stroke of his tongue drew me closer, filled me with a need only Grant had ever stoked. I was dizzy when his lips left mine, knowing something fundamental had changed, though I didn’t know what.
“I’ve never had a memory right here—in this little corner of Bridgeport—before, but I will now. I’ve been making lots of memories around Bridgeport lately, and you’re in every one of them.”