CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
LINA
L ater that night, after too many rounds of Scrabble, Grant tosses a pillow at me.
“Come on, pretty girl. You’re crashing hard.” His voice softens, though, when I don’t immediately move. “I know you've gotta be exhausted. I can see it in your face.”
I bite my lip, tucking my legs under me on the couch. Everything feels tight, stretched thin, like if I make one wrong move the whole night will crack wide open.
“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice betrays me, thin and raspy with nerves.
He leans forward, reaching out like he’s going to help pull me up, but he hesitates. His hand hovers in the air for a second before dropping to his side. “Pretty girl,” he says again, but this time it’s almost a whisper.
Finally, I push myself up, standing way too close to him. Our bodies brush lightly, and I swear the room tilts. Neither of us moves. Not really.
“Why do you call me that?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “ God , how couldn’t I?”
Then, his hand reaches out to push a loose strand of hair behind my ear. It’s possibly the gentlest touch that’s ever grazed my skin, and there’s a pocket of my heart that is bursting because of it.
The air between us is thick, charged, like a live wire. I don’t know who looks at whose mouth first, but once it happens, there’s no taking it back. His jaw clenches like he’s fighting with himself, like he knows he should turn away, but he doesn’t.
And I should, but I don’t either.
“Grant…” I breathe, but it’s barely a sound.
His hand comes up, hesitating again, before it ghosts along my jawline. His fingertips brush my skin again, so lightly it makes me shiver. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me right now,” he mutters.
I don’t think. I can’t. Not when he’s looking at me like that.
He closes the distance before I can say or do anything. His mouth hovers over mine, so close I can feel the heat of his breath, the tension coiled so tight it’s almost painful.
“Do you want this?” he rasps.
It doesn’t matter what this is. I know I want it. I bob my head, too breathless to speak.
That’s all it takes.
“Fuck it,” he whispers, more to himself as he closes the gap. His mouth finally presses to mine, slow at first, careful, like he’s giving me one last chance to pull away. But I don’t want to. I press closer instead, and something inside him snaps.
His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back as he deepens the kiss. It’s all heat and hunger and aching restraint, like he’s been holding himself back for far too long. I gasp against him, and he groans low in his throat, pulling me even closer.
The kiss turns desperate, greedy, months of tension crashing into one reckless, perfect moment. I fist the front of his sweatshirt, anchoring myself to him, afraid that if I let go, he might disappear.
My brain naturally wanders to every kiss I’ve had before. How everyone that was paced like this and progressed this quickly always led to sex.
And I know I can’t do that. Not after everything that happened and all the ways it’s altered the way I view intimacy.
Being cheated on will do that to you. Scrapes something raw in you that doesn’t quite heal right. Rewires your brain to believe closeness is a setup, tenderness a prelude to betrayal.
I can’t stand the idea of handing my body over like a fragile offering, only to watch him grow bored of it. To watch him walk away fine, while I’m left hollow and half-dressed.
But with Grant, it feels different. Like he cares. And even with how people perceive him, there’s a softness that doesn’t match his reputation. It makes me think doing something with Grant could be something easier than what I had with Gage. Something better.
I’ve never considered casual sex to be something I’d be able to do, but with the way Grant’s kissing me, I think I’d fall to every one of his whims.
So, I kiss him harder, like I can push the thoughts away with pressure and tongue and teeth. I kiss him and hold on too tightly, and maybe he notices.
His hand stills. His lips slow.
And then he pulls back, barely.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, neither one of us ready to move.
“Fuck,” he whispers, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. “You’re gonna to ruin me.”
I’m about to agree, but somehow, deep down, I know that he’s already destroyed me.
We stay like that for a moment longer, breathing each other in, until Grant finally pulls back enough to look at me. His thumb grazes my cheek, like he can’t quite stop touching me even if he wanted to.
I can’t believe we went from talking about orgasms to kissing the way we just did. Which begs the question, “Do you think you could make me come?”
“I’m positive I could.” He moves more hair out of my face, cupping my jaw. “And you can take me up on the offer any time you want. Just maybe wait until you can actually keep your eyes open.”
“You’re not into that?” I joke.
“I’m into you ,” he clarifies. “But no, I am not a necrophiliac.”
“You’re into me?” My grin stays intact because a small crevice in my brain had assumed it was the forced proximity of being in this house together that drew us together.
I mean, obviously I’m attracted to him. It’s undeniable how hot he is, with his messy dark hair, sharp jawline, and stupidly perfect mouth. There’s something about him that screams trouble, but it’s so enticing that I can’t help but get closer.
But I’m still not certain whether this is just what he’s used to doing to get girls into bed with him or if he really means it.
“Is that not obvious?” His brows furrow. “Lina, I’ve been flirting with you for months.”
“I thought you were only interested in girls who wanted hookups?” Not girls like me who have been traumatized by their ex-boyfriends.
“I might not be all about commitment, but that doesn’t mean I waste my time only on what’s convenient.”
I know exactly what he’s trying to tell me. He’s not offering himself to me because he thinks it’s easy. I’m something he’s choosing.
It equally thrills and terrifies me.
My throat feels tight. “So what am I, then?”
Grant doesn’t answer right away. His eyes search mine like he’s trying to find the exact words. “ ‘What aren’t you?’ is the real question.”
The words land softly, but they shake something loose inside me. Not a promise. Not a label. But a truth.
“Wow, you’re really into me,” I tease, poking him in the ribs.
“Come on,” he murmurs, voice still rough, wrecked from the kiss. I’m sure mine would sound similar if I could find the words to speak. “You need sleep.”
My body is still buzzing, and my heart’s still hammering against my ribs. I’m not sure how I manage to move my feet, but I do, following him up the stairs like I’m tied to him by some invisible thread.
The house is dark and quiet, every creak of the steps under our weight feeling loud, every small brush of our arms making my skin light up like it’s the first time he’s ever touched me.
Grant pushes his bedroom door open and flicks on the lamp beside the bed, bathing the room in soft, golden light. I hover in the doorway, suddenly unsure again—unsure of the rules, unsure of where we stand after what happened downstairs.
My brain’s logical default setting has suddenly flown out the window after what Grant and I just did. We’re supposed to be friends. He’s a notorious playboy. I’m still not over everything that happened to me last year.
Yet, here I am, hesitating in a way I never have before. Grant has been building a firm foundation underneath me, helping me fix my sleeping problems and stand on my own before he even tried to bridge the gap between friendship and something more.
Grant turns to look at me, reading the hesitation on my face immediately.
“I’ll stay over here,” he says, gesturing to the right side of the bed. His smirk returns, softer this time. “Scout’s honor.”
I roll my eyes, but the tension in my chest eases a little. I step inside, and he shuts the door quietly behind me, like we’re sealing off the rest of the world for the night.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I fiddle with the hem of my pajama shirt, feeling his eyes on me the whole time.
“You good?” he asks, voice low.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
But when I look up at him, he’s already pulling his sweatshirt off, and the worn T-shirt he wears underneath comes up with it.
His movements are slow and easy, like he’s trying not to spook me.
Like he’s trying to prove he’s still him.
Still the guy who teases me during Scrabble and calls me pretty girl like it’s a secret only he knows. One he wants me to decipher.
It doesn’t matter to me. I’m too busy staring at the ripples of muscle staring back at me, trying not to let my drool hit the floor.
I crawl under the covers, and he does the same, keeping his promise by staying by his side—but I can feel the pull between us like a magnet, impossible to ignore.
We lie there in the quiet for a while, the soft hum of the night wrapping around us. I turn onto my side, facing him.
Grant’s eyes are already open, watching me. He gives me the faintest, sleepiest smile.
“Night, pretty girl,” he whispers.
“Night, Grant,” I whisper back.
For a second, I think that’s it. But then he slowly reaches across the narrow gap between us, his fingers brushing lightly against my hand where it rests on the bed.
And when I don’t pull away, when I let my fingers thread through his instead, I feel him exhale a breath.
Neither of us says anything else. We stay like that, hands tangled under the covers, breathing each other in, the night stretching quietly around us.