Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Grant
After bathtime and dinner, then getting the girls in bed, I pull on a jacket and boots and slip outside.
I can still feel her hand in mine. Soft, but strong. Determined to meet me where I stood.
Something’s shifted, though. I couldn’t tell what at the time, but the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced there’s something going on with her. Not that it takes a detective when she says outright, “Happy to be out of my old life.”
My mind flashes to the mistrust she had of me when I stopped to help her with her tire, and the way I’d learned nothing about her life in LA thus far save what I saw in her background check.
It’s concern that has me knocking on her door at a few minutes after eight.
I’m satisfied to note the outer garage door is locked, so it takes a minute before I hear her footsteps descending the stairs.
Not that anyone else could just show up without warning without it being on my radar, but it’s not like the house is behind a gate or anything.
“Hi.” She pulls the door open wide to reveal she’s changed into jogger-style sweatpants and a T-shirt. Her hair is braided down her back and she’s fresh-faced. “Everything okay?”
“That’s actually what I came to ask you.” I shift, suddenly nervous and acutely aware that I’m overstepping. It doesn’t usually stop me when it comes to my friends and family, but I can’t rightly call Sam either of those things.
“Me?” She folds her arms and tucks them close.
“Earlier, you said you’d left your old life to start fresh here.
” Our gazes connect and the familiar jolt of heat and electricity zaps me.
“I got the feeling there’s a story there, though I get you might not want to talk about it, and—” I hold my hands up to show I mean no harm right as she opens her mouth to protest, then finish by saying, “I respect that.”
Her mouth snaps shut, so I keep going.
“But I do want to say that if you get to a point where you do want to talk about it, or you need anything…” I can’t help the impulse to step forward, though I do manage to keep my hands to myself. “Anything at all, Sam, I want you to tell me. Say the word and it’s yours.”
It’s a relief she doesn’t realize just how completely I mean that, but I also hope she understands I want to help her.
I might’ve started out suspicious, but I’ve seen enough of her, gathered enough about the past through the background check, to know she’s had some hard breaks.
I want her time here in Juniper View to be a good thing.
If I can help her feel that way, then all the better. It’s far too little, too late, but I have to try.
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
She stays with her arms locked around herself for a beat, gaze fixed on something just past me. When she finally looks up, there’s worry etched into her lovely features.
“Yes, I’m here for a fresh start. It sounds so cliché, but it’s true. My life in LA isn’t something I want to talk about, but I don’t want you to think I’m hiding some criminal past. I’m not a dangerous person, and I—”
“I’m not worried about that.” I don’t say “anymore” though I suspect we both hear it unspoken.
I grip the doorframe to keep from settling a hand on her arm, to make contact and offer her some strength, and maybe satisfy the part of myself that seems to need to be close to her. “I ran the background check, remember?”
“Right. Yeah. Sorry.” She shakes her head like she’s embarrassed she forgot.
“You don’t owe me an apology, okay? And I’m sorry if this is butting in. It’s a nasty habit, or so May tells me.”
She gives me her eyes then, a touch of humor on her face now. “I’m sure she’s very honest with you.”
I huff a laugh. “Brutally so.”
A tendril of hair rests against her cheek, and there’s a not-small part of me waging war to move my hand and brush it back behind her ear.
But that’s too much—too intimate, completely inappropriate at this point.
Of course she hasn’t said, “don’t touch me,” but that doesn’t mean she’s invited my contact.
I want to touch her in any small way I can, but the only thing I want more than the contact is her desire for it.
Not simply her consent, but her enthusiasm.
I crush the impulse by shoving my hands into my pockets. “I’ll let you get back up to Mr. Bingley. I just wanted to acknowledge what you’d said since we didn’t have time to talk earlier. And I mean it when I say I’m here if you need to talk or… just… need anything.” Smooth.
And yes, my internal heckling voice does most often sound like Finn.
She nods, accepting the offer. “Thanks. Same goes for you. Not sure what I have to offer, but if you think of anything, let me know and it’s yours.”
I blink away an image that bursts into my head, one where she’s offering and I’m taking… everything she has to offer.
And damn. I haven’t let myself go there, but there it is with a vengeance I’m certain I won’t be able to get out of my head anytime soon.
“Uh, yeah. Yep. Will do. I think Poppy would love to come have a little play date with Mr. Bingley. Maybe this weekend?”
This seems to please her and relax her based on the way her folded up posture straightens and her hands drop to her sides. “It’s a plan. Just let me know when. I work Saturday but I’m off Sunday.”
“Thanks, Sam.” I linger for a second, then force myself to give her one dip of my chin and turn to head back to my house.
I’m ten paces away when she yells out, “Hey, Grant?”
I turn on my heel and head straight back to her. It’s too late to be yelling across the space, even if it’s not that far. “Yeah?”
“Maybe we should exchange numbers? It might help with planning and stuff. But also, if I’m not at work, I’m here, so really, it’s fine if you’d rather not. I don’t mean to be pushy.”
“You’re not pushy at all. I should’ve offered my information sooner in case you have any issues with the place.”
Her shoulders relax an inch or two. “Right. Of course.”
She gives me her number, and I type it into a message, then send her a text so she has mine, too. I’m inordinately pleased by this development, even if it’s coming late and points to my negligence as a landlord.
“See you soon.”
Her expression is soft, and some of that worry I saw so clearly just minutes ago seems lessened.
Maybe that’s wishful thinking. It wouldn’t be the first time my brain tried to write a different story than the evidence pointed to. But tonight, I hope just knowing she isn’t alone helps in some small way.
And I hope this effort atones for how shitty I’ve been to her.
As I wander back home, I pray I can atone for the way I’ve failed her by being so rough the first few times we interacted. And underneath it all, there’s still the knowledge I have so much more to make up for—so many ways I’ve let everyone I love down.