4. Grant
Grant
I slide out of the booth. “I got this round.”
Annabelle stops me with a hand on my arm. Her fingers are small, with nails painted soft pink. The warmth seeps through my flannel shirt and it’s like she’s touching me everywhere. Nice.
“Do you think I’m stupid?” she asks.
Not so nice. “Um…”
“Never let a stranger bring you a drink. That’s girl 101.
No matter how charming the conversation.
No matter how hot the guy. No matter how magnetic the attraction.
I’ll get my own.” She stands next to me and I notice so many things at once.
She comes up to my shoulder. Her hair shines like moonlight on the lake.
Here in the depth of winter, she smells like a summer day—like peaches and coconut and sun-kissed skin. For a moment, I forget to breathe.
My brain is still glitching on “magnetic attraction” and “hot guy.” She’s halfway to the bar before I catch up.
I’ve got my credit card out. “I’ll let you order and I’ll make sure Callie hands it to you, but you have to let me buy this round.”
“Do I, though? Do I have to?” Her voice is teasing. Light. I like it.
“Please, Annabelle. May I buy you a drink?”
“Yes, Grant, you may buy me a drink.” She smirks as if she’s won a contest. Maybe she has. But I feel like we’re both going to be winners tonight.
She orders another winter cosmo. I switch to one of Callie’s low-alcohol cocktails since I’m driving and the weather is bad.
We watch her hands dance with spirits and shakers, mesmerized into silence, until the Solduxe guys spill half a pitcher of beer.
They swear at each other while they mop it up with bar napkins.
The women at the table shoot apologetic looks toward the bar.
Callie sighs and gets out a stack of rags.
“That’s stupid,” I tell Annabelle. “You’re the opposite of that.”
“I take it you’re not a business bro either?” Annabelle asks when we’ve collected our drinks and are once again in our booth.
“Not like them.”
“What do you do?”
“I try to keep people happy.” I leave it at that.
I’m proud of The Break, but people get funny when you say you run a rage room.
I don’t want her to think I’m full of rage.
I’m actually the opposite. Right now, I’m full of appreciation, and attraction, and no small amount of lust. Annabelle’s blonde hair is cut into a bob, exposing that delicious place where her neck meets her shoulder.
All I can think about is burying my nose in that spot and breathing her in.
But it’s not just her golden hair and round face and lush lips.
It’s the quick comebacks, and the way she laughs so easily.
She’s the most interesting woman I’ve met in ages.
“How do you keep people happy?” Annabelle lifts her drink and raises an eyebrow. “Do you juggle? Play ukulele? Do you strip for them?”
“Your mind went directly there?”
“We took a detour through juggling and ukulele.”
“But stripping is where we landed. Or maybe it’s where you want to land.” I pull at the edge of my flannel shirt and open the kimono. “You mentioned attraction to a hot guy?”
She stops staring at my chest. Meets my eyes. Blinks a few times. “That was hypothetical. I was telling you the rules.”
“Do you have a lot of rules?”
She blinks some more. “I’m forgetting most of them at this moment.”
Oh, I like her. My cock likes her too, and wants me to know. I shift in my seat and tell it to wait.
Annabelle puts down her cocktail. “But I remember that I’m not supposed to go home with a serial killer. That’s an important one.”
“I agree with that.” I lean in and lower my voice. “Are you a serial killer?”
She laughs. It sounds like wind through the pines and soft waves on the lake. “No. How about you?”
“No.”
She taps her chin. “I’m just supposed to take your word for it?”
“Except for those fools—” I point to the table full of Keiths. “I’m related to half the people in this bar and I grew up with the other half. They’ll vouch for me.”
Annabelle folds her arms and tilts her head, giving me an amused glare. “I’m not going to ask a bar full of strangers if I can take you upstairs.”
“Of course not,” I say, trying for a carefree tone. “That would be weird.”
This is happening. Maybe. Probably. But I’m not in a rush. I’m willing to let the evening unfold at its own pace because I’m enjoying this too. Lively conversation, banter on the mark, solid flirting. I could do this all night.
“This whole thing is weird,” Annabelle says. “I don’t usually do this.”
“But you want to do this?” I ask. Maybe Annabelle has forgotten her rules, but I haven’t forgotten mine.
I don’t make a move until I’m one hundred percent sure of a woman’s interest. I don’t want anyone to have any illusions.
She’s going to have a good time with me.
I guarantee that. I will worship her body in the way she deserves, and not quit until she’s glowing and content.
When I leave, I want her to be happy, feeling like time spent with me was time well spent.
But I don’t guess. I need to be sure. The dance doesn’t begin until she holds out her hand.
Annabelle takes a sip of her cosmo. “We haven’t overcome the serial killer problem.”
I get out my driver’s license and slide it across the table. “Take a picture of it,” I offer. “Text it to anyone you want.”
She picks up the license and I expect her to comment on the dorky photo, but instead she flashes me an open-mouthed smile. “You were born on Valentine’s Day?”
“Unfortunately.”
“That’s so romantic.”
“Sure,” I say. “Nothing says ‘love’ like being born on the world’s most fake holiday.”
“You don’t like Valentine’s Day?”
“Overpriced roses and pity hugs? No, thanks.”
“Oh no. Somebody’s got issues.” She seems delighted to have touched a nerve. She snaps a picture of my license, hands it back, and puts her phone away without sending it to anyone.
I make a ‘gimme’ gesture with my fingers. “I showed you mine, now show me yours.”
“I suppose that’s fair.” She pulls a purple wallet out of her bag and extracts her license.
Annabelle Kerr. Ann Arbor address. We’re both thirty years old, although her birthday isn’t until May. I take a picture of it before giving it back, then press a few buttons on my phone.
“Are you actually texting it to someone?” she asks.
I nod. “My brother.”
“No. Stop.”
“Fine.” I shrug. “I’ll send it to my sister.”
“Somehow, worse.”
“I’m just messing with you.” I put my phone away. “I’m not texting it to anyone.”
“Right. You wouldn’t want word of your troll-chasing habits to get out.”
I freeze, both hands flat on the table. “I don’t chase.”
“I just meant—”
“We need to get clear on this. You approached me. You sat next to me. If this is going to happen, it’s because you want it to.”
“If?” Annabelle drains the rest of her cosmo, leverages herself out of the booth, and holds out her hand. “Babes, it was a forgone conclusion about thirty seconds after you walked into this bar.”
There’s something about this pint-sized woman calling me Babes that scrambles my brain. I shouldn’t like it as much as I do. I should remind her that my name is Grant and she’s going to be moaning it in my ear before long.
But I don’t say any of that because fuck me, that casual endearment coming from her is hot. Everything about her is hot, from the sway of her hips in her tight jeans to the seductive smile she’s flashing over her shoulder as I follow her to the elevator.
The doors open. We get on. She pushes the button for the third floor. The doors close.
We crash into each other with the supernova burst of colliding galaxies.
Limbs entwined, chests together, necks bent and reaching, reaching, reaching for each other.
Is she on her toes? She must be. I grab her under the ass and lift, and now we’re face to face, lips together, her legs wrapped around me.
It’s not like any first kiss I’ve had before.
This is pure heat. This is whirling and spinning.
This is taking and receiving with an urgency that’s more than two mouths together.
More than lips and tongues. This is open, raw need. I can’t get enough of her.
The doors open. Someone clears his throat. An old man is waiting to board.
I put Annabelle down. She picks up her dropped purse. I grab my coat. We tumble out of the elevator, all grins, as the old man grumps past us. The doors close again.
“Damn.” Annabelle fumbles in her bag and retrieves her key card. “I knew I was going to like living in Echo Creek.”
I swear, I hear it. I don’t just imagine it. I clearly hear the ripping noise of an old-fashioned record scratch. It’s the sound of this entire night going to hell.
Annabelle waves her key triumphantly and lunges for me again. I back up, stepping out of her orbit. “You live here?”
“Yeah. I just moved here.”
“But…” This is not how the evening is supposed to go. We’re supposed to have mind-blowing sex and never see each other again. She’s supposed to be here today, gone tomorrow. Keyword: gone. “You were recording yourself on Cedar Street. I saw you.”
“So?”
“You’re staying at a hotel,” I finish limply.
“I haven’t got the keys to my place yet, and it’s a whole…thing.” Annabelle steps toward me again, oblivious. She doesn’t know what a big problem this is. She slides her hands up my chest. It feels better than I want it to. Dammit.
She smiles that sweet, sexy smile that’s going to be the death of me. “Luckily, I have a room here tonight, so nobody has to drive in the snow,” she says.
I remove her hands from my chest. “My truck has four-wheel drive.”
“And you’re telling me this because…”
“Because I’m going to drive home.” I’m already patting my pockets for my keys.
“Okay! You don’t have to spend the night.” Annabelle shows me her palms. “God, no. Who does that nowadays? Not if you don’t want to, but—”
“I’m going to drive home right now.” I push the button to summon the elevator.
“Now? What do you mean, now?” Annabelle whips her head toward the elevator doors and then back at me as if she’s wondering what just happened. Did we just imagine that incredible kiss?
We didn’t. It was real. It was sensational. She’s sensational. But I can’t stay. I can’t do this.
Dammit, this is so fucked up. I fucked up. This is my fault. I asked the wrong questions. Made the wrong assumptions. I should have known better. Annabelle doesn’t fit into any of the boxes labeled winter tourist because she’s not a tourist. She lives here. Which means I need to leave. Now.
“I’m sorry,” I say. It’s hardly adequate, but it’s all I have.
“Okay. Good.” Annabelle seems even smaller, as if she’s shrunk into herself, with drooping shoulders and a downcast gaze. “Not sure what for, though? I mean, I think I’m sorry? We got our wires crossed somewhere and I misread this situation, because I—”
“Please. Don’t.” I reach for her hand. She pulls it away. Fair.
“You’re beautiful,” I say. “And smart, and funny, and that kiss was something else. We would be great together.”
“But…” She waits for me to continue. She’s straightened up now, spine stiff. She looks like she’s starting to hate me.
She can join the club. I’m starting to hate me too. This has all gone so wrong, so fast, and there’s no way to make it right.
I don’t even try. I get back on the elevator, push the button for the ground floor, and die a little inside as the doors close on her beautiful face.
The elevator descends with just me in it. The idiot of Echo Creek.