CHAPTER SEVEN #2
They’re both wearing Yale Football sweatshirts. I try not to let my gaze linger long on Grant’s obvious quad muscles, but I can’t not acknowledge that they’re there, visible through his sweatpants.
Grant slides into the booth uninvited, settling next to me with a crooked grin that lets me know he remembers every single detail from last night. “How’s the head?”
“Fine,” I say quietly, scooting as close to the wall and as far from him as possible.
Grant smirks, leaning back like he owns the booth. “You sure? You look like you’re going through it.”
“Wow. Thank you so much. That means so much to me,” I reply with a sarcastic smile. “I’d say I hate you, but that would be a waste of my breath.”
“You did tell me that last night,” he says, like he’s genuinely proud of it. “Twice. Once while threatening to bite me if I didn’t stop laughing.”
Meredith snorts into her water. “Sounds fair.”
I only glare at him. “I’m sober, and the offer still stands.”
“Kinky,” he jokes with a cocky grin.
“In. Your. Dreams,” I say slowly, enunciating every syllable before making a show of reopening the menu in my hands and looking up at Eden. “What do you think I should get?”
“The strawberry pancakes are so good,” she says, but I’m barely listening because I can still feel Grant’s attention on me.
Then, he tugs lightly at the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “You don’t strike me as the basketball kind of girl.”
The comment feels like the equivalent of a match being struck inside me. I snap my head to turn back toward him and say, “Well, I didn’t strike you as the kind of girl capable of going to Yale either, did I?”
Grant’s eyes go wide for a second, then narrow. “You’re still harping on that?”
“Forgiveness is earned , Vandenberg.”
Truly, I don’t think I have any right to hate Grant for no reason. I also don’t necessarily have the energy to. But I’d be lying if I said Gage didn’t tamper with the lens I see men and their intentions through.
I’m working on it, but for now, I have a sinking feeling that I shouldn’t trust Grant. It’s why I don’t.
Eden chokes on her sip of water. “She’s awake now.”
“I’ve been awake,” I mutter, still feeling the buzz of heat in my cheeks. It’s not embarrassment; it’s the way he’s looking at me now—less smug, more intrigued. Like I’ve stepped onto a playing field I didn’t even know existed.
Our waitress swings by, asking if we’re ready to order. After Meredith, Eden, and I rattle off our relatively easy requests, all hope I have of Grant leaving diminishes when he and Braxton order next.
All of us girls are still gawking at the crazy amount of food the guys ordered as the waitress walks off, scribbling furiously. I pretend not to notice how Braxton leans over, whispering something in Meredith’s ear once he’s finished.
“Are you actually going to eat all that?” I ask, eyes wide. “That’s a week’s worth of food.”
Grant leans back, stretching his arms across the back of the booth like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. “I’ve got a fast metabolism. Plus, hangover cravings don’t mess around.”
Braxton laughs. “You didn’t even drink last night.”
“No, but I had to carry someone’s drunk ass home last night. Pretty sure that in itself warrants a secondhand hangover.”
I flip him off under the table, but not because I’m trying to be discreet. Eden coughs to hide her giggle.
Then Grant leans in, elbows on the table, chin propped in his hand. “Who knew you’d be even more feisty when you’re hungover?”
“Don’t make me regret waking up today.”
“You didn’t regret it when I carried you to bed last night.”
“Grant!” Eden scolds.
“What?” He grins like the devil himself. “She was all cuddly. Told me I had nice arms. Tried to pet my hair.”
“ What? ” I practically screech. It’s a girlish sound that I’m not sure I’ve ever made before. It sounds like something reserved for Eden.
“This is the best breakfast we’ve had in weeks,” Meredith says under her breath. It’s rare for her and makes me even more aware of the situation.
Here Grant is, teasing me— flirting with me—while everyone sits around entertained, like we’re in some sitcom where Grant and I are the infamous will-they-won't-they couple.
I bury my face in my hands, groaning.
“I’m shocked you don’t remember,” Grant says easily. “You even asked if I do this for all the girls or just the special ones.”
My hands drop, and I shoot him a glare, but there’s a flicker of something traitorous in my chest. Something I’m trying not to name. “I can’t believe I’d even ask that when the answer is so obvious.”
Braxton’s eyes widen from where he sits next to Meredith. “Holy…”
“Speaking of…” Meredith perks up, like she’s prepared to stir the pot. “Why isn’t Savannah with you? I could have sworn I saw her head upstairs with you after you got back from taking Lina home last night.”
Meredith is usually the last person to speak in social settings, unless she senses drama, then she’s a front-row spectator.
Grant doesn’t even flinch. Just lifts a brow and smirks. “She did.”
The table goes quiet for a beat. Even Braxton looks vaguely uncomfortable. That is his twin sister, after all.
Meredith’s eyes gleam, but Eden gives her a warning glance. I feel like the only one not surprised.
“And?” Eden asks, leaning further across the table.
“We watched Gladiator. She fell asleep halfway through.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes for what feels like the thousandth time. It might be a good movie, but it’s wildly inaccurate. Everything is dramatized, and the politics are oversimplified. Still, it makes for a gripping story. One I’d find difficult to fall asleep to.
Then again, falling asleep in general is a challenge for me.
“Is that what they’re calling it these days? Falling asleep? ” Meredith mutters.
“Only when you’re in bed with Grant,” I retort as a joke, but Grant’s face stays stoic. It kind of bothers me.
He still doesn’t falter. He leans into me, his breath grazing my ear and leaving me frozen as he says, “Want to find out?”
I shove his shoulder, but it only makes him smile more.
“You’re seriously flirting with Lina when you had Savannah in your bed mere hours ago?” Meredith asks, narrowing her eyes at him.
“I don’t kiss and tell.” Grant winks when he sees our expressions. “Relax, princesses. Savannah and I—we’re friends. With… you know, benefits, sometimes. No one’s catching feelings. I’m not that kind of guy, and she’s not that kind of girl.”
I try to focus. Try to pretend I’m not hyper-aware of the way Grant’s knee brushes against mine under the table. Once. Twice. Not enough to be on purpose, but also not entirely accidental.
And when our food finally arrives—pancakes, burritos, greasy hash browns that smell like heaven—I dig in gratefully, hoping that—despite it being impossible—I can eat enough to erase the memory of my night.