Chapter 31 Grant
Grant
I adjust my tie in the mirror for the third time, then force myself to stop. It’s fine. The tie is fine. The suit is fine.
Except it’s not the suit I usually wear to games. This one is different—charcoal gray instead of navy, with a subtle pattern in the weave that catches the light. I bought it last year, but I haven’t had the opportunity to wear it yet.
For reasons I’m not letting myself think about, I wanted to wear something special tonight.
I give myself one final look in the mirror, then head downstairs. I can hear Heather’s voice before I see her, patient but firm in that way she gets when April is being stubborn about something.
“Sweetheart, it’s just for a few hours. And you look so pretty in it.”
“But it’s itchy,” April whines. “And the sleeves are too long. Can’t I just wear my jeans?”
I round the corner into the living room and find them standing near the couch.
Heather is already dressed in a dark green dress that hugs her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry, and April is wearing what looks like a very nice dress with lace sleeves—which she’s currently tugging at with obvious irritation.
“It’s a fancy event, sweetheart. You need to wear something nice.”
“But I don’t like it.”
I clear my throat, and they both turn to look at me. Heather’s eyes widen slightly when she sees me in the suit, and I catch the way her gaze travels down and back up before she quickly looks away.
Good to know I’m not the only one affected.
“You know,” I say, walking over to where April is standing, “I think that dress is pretty cool. Very grown-up. Almost like something a professional photographer would wear to an important event.”
April looks up at me skeptically. “Really?”
“Really. Margo has to wear stuff like this all the time when she’s working fancy team events. And you’re going to be helping your mom tonight, right? Helping make sure everything runs smoothly?”
“I guess,” April says, but I can already see her posture changing, and she’s standing a little straighter.
“Then you need to look the part. Besides, the sleeves aren’t that long. We can roll them up a little bit.” I crouch down and carefully fold up each sleeve twice, making them sit just below her elbows. “There. How’s that?”
April examines her arms, turning them back and forth. “Better,” she admits. With more enthusiasm, “Actually, it does look kind of cool now.”
“Told you.” I stand back up and catch Heather’s eye. She’s looking at me with something soft and grateful in her expression, and it takes everything in me not to cross the room and pull her into my arms.
“Thank you,” she mouths silently.
I nod, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her.
It’s been almost three weeks since our weekend together. Almost three weeks of stolen glances and careful distance, of making sure we’re never alone in a room with a closed door, of lying awake at night knowing she’s just down the hall and not being able to do a damn thing about it.
We’ve found a few moments here and there—a kiss in the kitchen when April was upstairs brushing her teeth, my hand on her lower back as she passed me in the hallway, and whispered words in the garage when she was getting into her car. But it hasn’t been enough.
Not even close.
I feel greedy. Starving. I’ve had a taste of something incredible, and now I can’t stop thinking about it, craving it, needing it.
“Okay, we should get going soon,” Heather says, pulling out her phone to check the time.
“I need to be there early to make sure everything is set up properly. But you don’t have to come with us now, Grant.
The event doesn’t start for another two hours.
You could come later with the rest of the guys. ”
“I don’t mind coming now,” I say, probably a little too quickly.
She looks up at me, surprised. “Are you sure? You’ll just be sitting around while I run around like a crazy person making sure the caterers are set up and the tables are arranged correctly and—”
“I can help.”
“Help?”
“Yeah. Help.” I shrug. “I can move tables. Arrange chairs. Whatever you need.”
She blinks at me, and I can see her trying to figure out if I’m serious. “You want to help me set up for the fundraiser?”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Because you’re…” She gestures vaguely at me. “You’re Grant Parker. You don’t do event setup.”
“Says who?”
She opens her mouth, then closes it again, clearly at a loss for words.
“Look,” I say, taking a step closer but keeping my voice low enough that April can’t hear from where she’s now admiring herself in the mirror across the room. “I want to be there. With you. Even if it’s just moving furniture around.”
Something shifts in her expression, and for a moment I think she might argue. But then she nods, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“Okay,” she says softly. “You can come help.”
“Good.”
We stand there for another moment, and the air feels thick with everything we can’t say in front of April. Then Heather takes a breath and turns away.
“April, grab your jacket. Grant, do you want to ride with us, or are you taking your truck?”
“We can all take my truck if you want. That way you can double-check things and make last-minute calls if you need to while I drive.”
“Perfect. You’re a saint. Let’s do this.”
As we head out to the truck with April chattering excitedly about the event and Heather quietly running through her checklist, I take a second to get another look at the woman I’ve fallen so completely head over heels for.
Tonight might technically be about the fundraiser and about supporting a cause that matters to her.
But for me, it’s about something else entirely.
It’s about being there for her. About showing up and making sure she knows that when she needs someone, I’m that someone.
We all pile into my truck—with April more than happy to sit in the backseat so she can see out both windows—and head toward the venue. The venue is in a part of Denver I don’t visit often, an area with older buildings that have been converted into event spaces and galleries.
“Is it going to have flowers?” April asks. “Mom said it’s at a conservatory. That means flowers, right?”
“It’s a greenhouse,” Heather explains, glancing back at her daughter. “So yes, there will be plants and flowers. But also rooms where we can have the dinner.”
“Cool! Can I take pictures?”
“As long as you’re not in the way while people are working, sure.”
April launches into a detailed description of all the different types of flowers she knows, which somehow transitions into a story about something she learned in science class, which then becomes a question about whether I’ve ever seen a carnivorous plant.
“I have, actually,” I tell her. “When I was a kid, the hospital I went to had a small conservatory where patients could sit and get some sun. They had a few Venus flytraps in there.”
“Did you feed them bugs?”
“Once or twice.” I glance at her in the rearview mirror. “The nurses said it would help me feel better, being able to take care of something.”
“Did it work?”
I consider that for a moment. “Yeah. I think it did.”
April nods as if I’ve confirmed some theory she’s been working on, then immediately switches topics to ask if I think the event will have dessert.
The kid has a gift for keeping conversations moving.
We pull up to the conservatory, and I can see why Heather chose this place. It’s beautiful—a sprawling glass structure with modern additions, surrounded by gardens that still look amazing in the fading evening sunlight. Through the lit windows, I can see even more lush greenery inside.
“Okay,” Heather says, already pulling out her phone and scrolling through what looks like a very detailed checklist. “The caterers should already be here, and the rental company was supposed to deliver the extra tables by four. I need to check on the sound system and make sure the slideshow is queued up properly and—”
“Heather.”
She looks up, blinking at me like she forgot I was here.
“Breathe. You’re a pro. You’ve got this.”
She takes a visible breath, then nods. “Right. I’ve got this.”
The moment we walk through the doors and she spots the event coordinator waiting for her, something changes.
The scattered, anxious energy that was radiating off her in the truck disappears, and she’s suddenly sharp and focused in a way I seldom get to see when we’re lounging around the house together.
This is Heather in her element, doing work that matters to her, and she’s fucking good at it.
It’s also, somewhat inconveniently, a turn-on.
“Grant?” She’s suddenly in front of me, clipboard in hand. “Can you help me move that table against the wall? The caterers need more space to set up.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
I follow her instructions, moving furniture and adjusting the layout of the room while she oversees everything with the kind of laser-sharp attention to detail I usually reserve for game footage.
April helps where she can, mostly by staying out of the way and taking pictures of the flowers in the greenhouse section.
By the time we’re finished with the setup, the space looks like something out of a magazine. Round tables with white linen tablecloths and centerpieces made of simple greenery. Candles that put out the perfect amount of soft lighting to make the whole room feel warm and intimate.
One whole side of the room opens into the greenhouse section, where the tropical plants and climbing vines create the kind of lush backdrop that doesn’t need any other decoration to be breathtaking.
“This is going to be amazing,” I tell Heather as she does one final walk-through.
She nibbles on her bottom lip, and I can see some of the nervous energy creeping back in now that the setup is done. “You think so? The tables aren’t too crowded, are they? And the lighting is okay?”
“It’s perfect. Every detail.”