Chapter 5 #3
He asks instead of arranging. I do not have language for why that matters so much yet.
I only know how it lands.
“What is your preference?” I ask.
He takes one step closer.
“I want to take you on dates even when no one needs to see us.”
My stomach flips.
“That sounds suspiciously like dating.”
“I was worried you’d notice.”
“And if this explodes?”
“It might.”
“Strong sales pitch.”
“I can lie if you’d prefer.”
“Apparently the tree will find us.”
He laughs softly.
The sound moves through me.
I am scared.
That is the irritating, uncomic truth of it.
I am scared because Landon once knew exactly how I took my coffee and still managed to build a life where my no became a scheduling inconvenience.
I am scared because Grant has enough money and influence to rearrange whole rooms before I reach them, and part of me is waiting to discover what he will want in exchange for restraint.
I am scared because so far he keeps giving me choices.
Those are much harder to blame someone else for.
“Okay,” I say.
His gaze holds mine. “Okay what?”
“One real date at a time. No promises about where it goes. The public arrangement still ends at Harvest Lights unless we decide otherwise.”
“Agreed.”
“And if you start buying buildings, I will leave.”
“I own some buildings already.”
“New buildings. Contextually relevant buildings.”
“Understood.”
“You are enjoying this.”
“Very much.”
I laugh.
Then I stop because he is close enough now that I can see the darker ring around his gray irises, and I have been thinking about kissing him for most of dinner.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
“May I?” he asks.
I could tease him.
I could make a joke about paperwork or appendices or Vermont municipal law.
I do not.
“Yes.”
He kisses me beside the town green with nobody watching.
At first it is soft, almost careful.
Then I slide my hands under his coat and around his waist, and careful becomes a temporary condition.
His hand moves to the back of my neck. The other settles at my hip, pulling me closer only after I move first.
I feel the full length of him against me through layers of denim and wool and suddenly understand that my body has been treating these kisses as a preview instead of a complete event.
My breath catches.
Grant makes a low sound against my mouth.
That sound is an extremely effective argument against responsible decision-making.
I kiss him harder.
His fingers tighten at my hip.
For several excellent seconds, I forget Bellweather has traffic laws, seasonal employment, and a functioning postal service.
Then headlights sweep across the far edge of the green.
We separate by instinct, both breathing harder than the situation allows me to explain with dignity.
A pickup passes without slowing.
Grant rests his forehead briefly against mine.
“Still want one real date at a time?”
“Ask me again when my brain has blood flow.”
He laughs.
I lean back enough to look at him.
“This is going to get complicated.”
“Yes.”
“You’re supposed to reassure me.”
“I thought you liked honest answers.”
“Selective honesty. Very healthy.”
His thumb brushes once along my jaw.
“I can do slow.”
The words hit me with more force than the kiss.
Because slow is not what men say when they are trying to close a deal.
Slow is what somebody says when the answer matters after tonight.
I nod.
“Good.”
We walk back toward the tavern lot with our hands linked.
At the corner, his phone buzzes again.
He checks it, then puts it away without answering.
“Not urgent?” I ask.
“Cameron says the Bellweather photo is moving faster than North Country Living expected.”
My stomach dips. “Bad?”
“Not yet. She wanted me to know.”
“And Celeste?”
“No new message.”
I nod.
For once, the silence that follows is not empty.
At my truck, Grant opens the door, then steps back instead of leaning in for another kiss.
I am weirdly disappointed.
He sees that too.
Damn observant men.
“You said slow,” he says.
“I am capable of slow and kissing at the same time.”
“Useful clarification.”
I catch the front of his coat and pull him down for one last kiss.
Short this time.
Mostly.
When I let go, his eyes are dark.
“Tomorrow,” he says.
“You have campaign calls all morning.”
“You know my schedule?”
“I run the site. I know everyone’s schedule.”
“Terrifying.”
“Correct.”
“Then I’ll see you after the eleven o’clock walkthrough.”
I climb into the truck.
“Grant?”
“Yes?”
“I am emailing those clients tomorrow.”
His expression goes still and warm at once.
“Good.”
There it is again.
Not I can help.
Not let me.
Just good.
I close the door before I can do something reckless like tell him how much that matters.
On the drive home, the town slips past in pools of porch light and dark storefront glass.
The entire purpose of tonight was to make the lie believable.
Instead, somewhere between the burger, the business plan I refuse to call a business plan, and Grant asking whether he could kiss me when no one was watching, the lie has become the least complicated part.
The public relationship is fake.
The problem is that I am no longer sure anything else is.