8. #5
"Your agents will follow behind Joe," Vivian continues. "He'll be out front momentarily."
"Okay," I say.
Vivian stands, smooth as ever. "Good job tonight."
Then she's gone—already moving through the crowd, already back into the machine.
I step outside into the night.
Cold air hits my bare arms immediately, sharp enough to make my breath catch.
Lights spill from the entrance behind me. People cluster near the curb, waiting for cars, laughing softly, wrapping shawls around shoulders.
I stand near the edge of the sidewalk, posture composed, hands folded in front of me like I'm waiting for a photo op.
Then I see him.
Grant is a few feet away near a stone column, half in shadow, lighting a cigarette like he doesn't care who sees.
The flame flares bright against the dark.
I hesitate, then walk toward him.
He turns as I approach, eyes widening a fraction like he's been caught doing something private.
"Mrs. Housner," he says, tone almost amused.
"Dr. Lennox," I reply, equally dry.
Then, because I don't know how to do anything without truth hiding inside it, I add, "I didn't know you smoked."
Grant exhales slowly, turning his head away from me as he blows smoke into the air.
"Bad habit," he says. "I'm trying to quit."
I stop a comfortable distance away.
Not too close.
Not too far.
He looks at me, cigarette held between two fingers.
"You did well tonight," he says.
I huff softly. "I winged it."
Grant's mouth curves—an approving nod that feels more intimate than a compliment.
"That's impressive," he murmurs.
The cold bites again.
A breeze cuts down the street and slides under my short sleeves like a hand.
I wrap my arms around myself automatically, rubbing my palms up and down my forearms.
Grant watches the movement.
His gaze drops.
Then—without thinking—he pulls his suit jacket off.
"No," I say immediately, reflex fast. "It's fine. Joe should be here any second."
Grant doesn't even pause.
"You're cold," he says simply.
He steps closer.
The jacket is warm from his body. Heavy. Solid.
He drapes it over my shoulders, careful not to pull my hair, careful not to jostle the neckline of my dress.
His hands follow the fabric down.
Just smoothing the jacket into place along my arms like he's making sure I're covered.
His fingers trail to my elbow.
Pause.
A second too long.
My breath catches.
It's ridiculous how much one gentle touch can do when you've spent years bracing for touch to mean something else.
I tilt my head up.
Grant is already looking at me.
Close.
Steady.
The eye contact holds.
Longer than it should.
Charged in the quiet way electricity is charged—silent until it burns.
"Better," he says softly.
Then he takes a drag from the cigarette like he needs something to do with his mouth.
I nod once because my voice has disappeared.
He breaks the eye contact first, gaze flicking over my shoulder toward the curb.
I turn to see a black car pulling up.
He lifts his hand in a subtle wave.
The cigarette comes out of his mouth and he drops it onto the floor.
He crushes it beneath his shoe with practiced ease.
"Car's here," he says.
He looks back at me briefly, as if checking I'm still standing.
"Will I see you next week?" he asks, voice low.
My stomach flips again.
"I don't know," I say carefully. "My schedule's a little crazy."
Grant's mouth twitches like he's suppressing a smile.
"You're a busy woman, Naomi." he murmurs.
I try to pull the jacket off my shoulders. "Here—take it. I don't want you to—"
Grant's hand comes down lightly on my shoulder, stopping me.
Not forceful.
"Hold on to it," he says.
His thumb presses once—barely there—like punctuation.
"I'll be in the car," he adds, calm. "You'll still be standing out here."
My throat tightens.
"I can get it back Thursday," he says, as if it's nothing.
"My schedule remember," I whisper."I'm not sure about Thursday yet."
Grant's eyes hold mine for half a beat longer.
"Then the week after," he says, quiet and certain.
Like he's already decided I'm not disappearing.
He steps back.
The air rushes into the space he leaves.
Grant turns and walks toward the car, posture composed again, slipping back into the version of himself the world expects.
I stand on the curb with his jacket around my shoulders, my arms warm for the first time all night.
My body hums with a feeling I don't have language for.
Not desire.
Not exactly.
Something quieter.
Something worse.
Hope.
Joe's car pulls up moments later.
An agent comes out from the car behind and opens the door.
"Ma'am."
I glance down at the jacket, then back toward the street where Grant's car disappears into traffic.
I don't take it off.
I climb into the backseat wearing it like a secret.
And as the door closes and the car begins to move, I realize something that makes my chest tighten in a way that isn't panic.
Tonight wasn't just an event.
Tonight was the first time in years that someone touched me gently and my body didn't flinch.
It leaned in.
And that terrifies me more than the cold ever could.